this mummifying is so glorious
give me the bandages to bury his face,
his closing caricature and the,
the one I desired to decorate
in seconds we slipped to the hours
holding jokes with steady smirks.
Sometimes I doubt we were sober
perchance drunk on endorphins,
fleeting his sorrow in airless punches,
ironic the satire we spoke fell flat,
spiked us stoned and still walking square.
Still talking sparing the misery
for separate minutes, the,
the ones no one wants to tick against
the clock-face and create as a feeling.
But what if that’s the way I covered him?
Forgetting his underneath.