Discretion

It is not Death

that watches us

with suspicion, yet

you invoke Her name

anyway, make of Her a boundary,

make of me an earthen intimacy.

There is no revelry in roots

no matter how deep they run,

only filth to fill a heart

with darkness, only bones

separated from their souls,

forsaken by the sun while

honey & all its suckling

wonder what lies below,

imagining such romance

in dark & dirty things

like me, naked yet

unseen, my secrets

my own to keep.