When a wicker burns-out quicker,
and another’s will burn no more,
nib a dry nub asleep in a wizened nest,
it’s nice to know, though cold indeed,
there’s no need now to heed
the urge and goad of goat heat,
no need to coax or be caught
to pressure, beseech and feel
the close reach up against the ropes.
A litany of no goes to plural of peaches
and peace is a rosary of yeses said
in the silences between diminishes.
When you come to admit, at rest,
it’s all over, bent, sore but soft,
relieved neither bothered
nor bother anymore will be,
breaths roses fall,
almost not fall, slow pink petals,
and a peaceful evening now alone
in bed on a needless night.