She is wet and small, trembling in the valley of his palm,
and her waxen wings make a heavy cocoon, drenched,
laden with honey tears;
As the man sobs, tremulous, creaking.

This is when the forest begins shaking,
as wayward trees crouch with weeping
to kiss their moss-adorned feet,
Each towering giant bent waist-ward in grief.

This is because of her,
of her body’s violent fluttering
Because of the bees
that have begun swarming.

The sky is mourning the absence of light,
the man is shivering in the shadow.
His bones are weak with long suffering,
his hand has not moved.

He knows well the soft plane of frosted cheek,
how it is now pale and damp.
Feels himself break from gazing at her smooth eyelids,
swept back, sloping downward to whispering lashes.

Slowly, deliberately, they shuffle towards him,
Umbrous, dark creatures who like undertakers,
soberly usher in the death
of each quiet vessel.