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 —
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.