Come Clementine,
rest your tired legs,
rest your aching bones
and lay your muscle down beside.
Do not wait
for the awkward hug of death,
all elbows and ebony,
moth chewed velvet.

Come Clementine,
do not wait.
Close your eyes for sleeping,
slow your forced breath.
Look.
The rain has washed your streets,
the mud is soft enough to mold,
and the rain
drops harder
beneath the trees.

Clementine,
go forward, go on.
Let slim ivory fingers
circle your wrists
in a dead mans grasp,
in a hold soon to be your own.

Come Clementine,
rest your tired legs.
Rest your aching bones
and lay your muscle down beside.