This is the dove's resting place
here, on frosted fingers
ready to collapse and give in
for something good,
to provoke something
perhaps an escape from loneliness
a kind of recession
whose gift is flight.


This is your chance to recede
for your outsides to crumble away,
not from use, or old age,
but because the beauty it does encase
is finally tough enough
and lean enough
to create its own wrinkled legs.

This is your support
two white veils
frosted as the bird's nest,
but without that same nostalgia.
If once you were ready to die,
now you are even less prepared
when the noose isn't created with that same love
and doesn't greet you with that same, heartwarming smile
and even that tomb has a bit more space,
it could be fit for two.