Do

You are an angel and a lout
Being dead that is what you do
Your bones are cookie cutters for the stars
Or something equally banal
It is like fingering the angle between us and the grass
My feelings towards you
Now you are developing like a photograph
Constantly, inconstantly
One has to push the colors
One has to pull them
One has to dodge and burn one's sentiments
On a sort of plate or paper or sky
Oh, there is no "one"
That funny pronoun of grief
It makes no sense
But that is not what the dead do
They are grainy and round like a stone in your hand