Dead Man's Mouth

Even though I could see
I wouldn't say so. Time
is a ruddy cousin this
time of year.
In his mute wish
I see other scenarios:
entwined knees, flicked
Zippo, wick response,
lip on glass rim,
blue-veined, brittle neck,
and pure vengeance
in the kissing of the dead.

As the Frozen

Comes a time in freezing when
you go warm and euphoria
beds you down with a snowbank–

                    preserved
like Mallory's boot soles
and camera and ankle flesh,
or the bony limb of Amelia
Earhart still in its long shoe.
SOS. May Day. Here I go,
under hypothermia's practicum:

Shadrack, Meshach, and Abednego
with the Fourth Figure
       –your name here–
grinning in the furnace.

Thrown to the Waves For a Burial at Sea

I practice my burial at sea
in the bathtub: inert, bountiful,
sliding evenly down so I hear
the sea from my body submerged
moving water, breathing held
to the ring of an egg timer.

Not yet it is necessary
to tie my feet so they don't splay,
or sew my length into a sail,
with the final stitch tethered
in my nostril.

It gives me ease to match my body
(lazy swimmer) to the sea and decide
my surrender: water, air,
Or some awful, hopeful compromise.