The other
day when we were walking by the graveyard near the house
you asked me if I thought we would ever die.
And if life and love both fade so predictably,
we've made ourselves a kind of predictable lie.
So I pictured us like corpses lying side by side in pieces
in some dark and lonely plot under a bough.
We looked so silly there all decomposed,
half turned to dust in tattered clothes,
though we probably look just as silly now
