Lay me down in feathers and branches of fragrant rosemary.
Gather to me the memory of flights,
movement, migration, change.
Stuff my pillow, my mattress, my sleeping pad
where ever I lie down tonight,
full of the opportunity of death.

Gather to your bosom the green needles of rosemary lengths
cut, trimmed, tugged free from
all the yards of our neighbors
as we walked together,
stirring the yellow of the ginkgo leaves
and the easy chill of Portland concrete.

Allow me to wander,
past the catch in your throat
to the place my fingers feel you swallow
head against your pulse beat.
Fingers tasting your tonsils.

Sing me to sleep with ballads
stolen from the voices of beautifully pierced and adorned gay men.
The key to happiness tattooed onto their necks.
Allow me to follow you home
and lay me to rest
flushed and blushing from the winter,
against your sternum
wrapped in potential flight and rosemary.
Smelling afterwards of
kitchen sex and death.