From Skylight

Death at your feet has smell
As vile as your delight;
It was never enough;
you died atop dirt

That ran parallel to rancid things
And the dam made sweet
By looming melon grass trees
cloaked at dawn.

There is more comfort
In the nettles of poison ivy
That, when released, sit
dryly on the palm.

You despise weak sours, it
Faded as you grew old;
The thorn of the stem
finally relieved

Later of pain not sugar filled;
That is not slowed with love
And radiance and sureness.
I spurn the clean

Of smiles, the precursor
To oily despair.
The savory, sweet bark
and prominent root

Were loose and healthy and bare
When you gave your hand,
Sitting softly next to
the lava and sea.

The comfort is too much:
You shy from weightless impotency

To disregard the surf as smooth is
to make half your fleeting.