Weep No More (after Greg Wrenn/John Keats)

In the morning, he
falters,
struggles to
assert himself,

reaches out through
the agonizing
fog, the perplexity,
the bewilderment

from last night,
or last week,
or was it last
year. Her

body's turning,
turning
towards him
in the bed's --

battle zone?
Armageddon?
She sighs.
A sob buried inside

like a whimper
behind his mask,
like the embryo
in a seed - it wants out.

Shed no tear,
my love. Your flower
will bloom another year.
Weep no more, my friend.