Some famous grave
What I sometimes want
is to be Shakespeare
or John Donne,
lying in some famous grave,
my face on postcards
and my bones revered,
visited by love-sick pilgrims.
My words still copied
and soft-spoken
by a world of lovers,
who find meaning in their shadow fire,
whispered through some endless night,
when strangers meet
and fall in love.
But mostly what I want to be
is whisper on your breath,
a body you will make your home,
a voice that sings like autumn trees
before the slow leaf falling,
a mortal hand that holds to you
till all our little worlds are done.