Teatime with the Dead

She walks in profound little rhythms
sipping coffee and trampling graves.
The dead will surely reach upward
to gather her toes like biscotti,
to go with their lattes,
made with the steam of her eyes.

And she still walks in profound little rhythms,
with her lashes curled so seductively wise.
She can see the arms of her dead perfectly.
And she lets them pluck a few hairs from her head
to knit tiny jackets for the crows,
with whom the dead now take their tea.

And still she walks in profound little rhythms,
steps lightly with footprints lined deep,
past the dead petting their crows
and feeding them her curled toes.