Epithalament

Other weddings are so shrewd on the sofa, short and baffled, bassett-legged. All things knuckled, I have no winter left, in my sore rememory, to melt down for drinking water. Shrunk down. Your wedding slides the way wiry dark hairs do, down a swimming pool drain. So I am drained. Sincerely. I wish you every chapped bird on this pilgrimage to hold your hem up from the dust. Dust is plural: infinite dust. I will sink in the sun, I will crawl towards the heavy drawing and design the curtains in the room of never marrying you. Because it is a sinking, because today’s perfect weather is a later life’s smut. This soiled future unplans love. I keep unplanning the same Sunday. Leg and flower, breeze and terrier, I have no garden and couldn’t be happier. Please, don’t lose me here. I am sorry my clutch is all tendon and no discipline: the heart is a severed kind of muscle and alone. I can hear yours in your room. I hear mine in another room. In another’s.