Bride

Be now the bride of Death. Through portals where

The moon glides, glide on moonlit air.

Lift up your tired smile:

This is not night, but an aisle

Down which your feet were meant to go.

Here are faces, row on row,

Waiting for your face.

You are music in a place

Of song. Move slowly, let the candles press

Petals of light on your dress;

Let a silver rose

Open where your fingers close.

And when you reach the altar, like a plume

Bend your pale head to the groom.

Is it Death at your side? . . .

You are no less a bride.