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.