in the tomb
a shame along his breast
on the hilt of his rapier. Shuffling boot
prints beating a path up and down the
graveyard until his gray-form bends
ghostly into the tomb, where
with the acrid decay of
lays his hands out over Romeo, soft
with death's callousness, his bones have
sunken low enough to whisper night-dreams
to the worms, swollen, as he recalls, with
a knot of silk in his hand.
He is alone.
Juliet is nowhere, least of all here.
Outside the grasses bend
under heel; the coniferous'
arch (as slanted rooftops), and
the flowers glow pale and molten
from his torch light.
and walks, and
furthering his step
with misguided direction bears witness to the empty streets.
He is fat
with loss; hot from wine, sticky
from love making;
heavy from the
that he is the only one left.