friend poetry

woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
from floor to ceiling
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
the body may confine
when the hours of day are numbered
to come so soon to this imagined dark
three years ago today
sleep, gray brother of death
above them all, looking down
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
in new york harbor
i am dying