by Peter Schireson

I’m coming to the cemetery tonight
and I’m going to lie on top of your grave, baby
pull a blanket up over us,
me on the grass, you in the grave,
and whisper to you as birdsong
            Redeyed Vireo,
            Wilson’s snipe,
            Hu hu hu
            as it used to
as I used to,
and I’ll whisper how I miss
coconut pie for breakfast, how I miss
how none but you knows all the stupid shit I’ve done.
I miss that too.