Work Text:
Burial of the Dead
June is the cruelest month, breeding
Bloodstains out of the dry pavement, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dulled feelings with near-summer heat.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Your grave in forgetful snow, feeding
My little life with some respite.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Thames
With a shower of hesitation; we stopped on Baker Street,
And went on in strength, into the graveyard
And talked by your headstone—you listened—for an hour.
I am not dead at all; I come from saving you, I am here.