The priest must’ve lost count of tulips swanning into the joint
Red flowing hairs from the backs of their necks
Nervous of what god would do if he knew they didn’t believe in him
But were stamping over the bloodless beds
To get to a bona fide person.
Even if she is just bones.

She was easily found and I, an equally bizarre being
Cut through the graves like a scalpel, rejecting the problems that came with following directions.
My poem would be read, the lavender a blanket that smelt like home
That felt like her temperature rising again.
Though she would hate me hugging the dead out of her.

A bumblebee pricked the vapour into me
And buzzed humorously at my expense.
He turned my throat to zeppelins,
The thicket to the base for a hot air balloon
Where the ghost went on holiday.
She was so proud to haunt me that I gave her free access
Even though it murdered my breath.
I told her “anytime” and I still do
My pain an excuse
To do it again.