Zephyr Poem by Jack Oates

Marry me, and then leave.
Take me under the gate,
the arch, the peal.
Take me under the ravens -
charcoal crosses,
cawing at mawkish chestnuts.
Lay me before a tableau of priers,
reverent and solemn,
tight lipped and hushed by the day.
Bequeath me your brevity -
my mistral, my zephyr.
Blow away, blow away.
Drift past the pews,
the regimented few,
the hemlock, the yews.
Waft through; your graceful lych
in borrowed shoes
and pastel crinoline,
crackling like crisp packets,
circling in corners,
waiting to be gathered.

Enter me, and then vanish.
Enter me with a vision:
spittle on a pillow,
copper stranded on white enamel,
a silver crucifix
on stretched, black cotton.
Thrust me into your vulgar void;
your torrid terra preta;
secrete a seed to grow anew.
O, Hera - long limbed Hera:
Give me your cold shoulder
your burnished curls,
your craven cry,
your gelatine welts.
As the pale veil flutters
the sun effects its egress,
averting its gaze
from our basal blend -
our visceral seep
seeking rapture, seeking rest.

Kindle me, and then wither.
Kindle me - my rib,
my knuckle, my heel.
Swaddle me in a sanguine shroud,
a shrugged fug;
my arid throat the motes pervade.
Dance with me before the draw.
Our step in time combines sublime;
fine lace shades their faces;
mutes their muttered mottos.
Drift up, drift up.
We will desiccate,
we will atomise
we will dissipate;
an ashen waltz that leaves no footprints,
only fleeting flecks
that shape the bones
of lovers not yet imagined.