Blueing our mouths
with wine
last night,
I told you about Prufrock
and you said
you’d been spending some time
with the dead, and quite
liked their tendencies
to ignore you
and to weep.
There’s a symmetry
in us, I think –
The yellow rib lanterns,
the tedious capillaries
back to the heart
And our blue lips
and the way,
if you let them,
the dead, like poetry
will tell you things.