Crematorium

Those who sleep in down-wind rooms

Breathe their skyward brothers' fumes.

Lovers mingle who would kiss.

Dreams are not improved by this.

Dust is what I cannot stand-

Ash reduction of a hand,

Wind's dispersion of a warm

Locally impounded form,

Or the flurry everywhere

Of a woman's waving hair.

You who must, like me, desire,

Stay to windward of that fire.