for Katie, rip September

it happened in her sleep
(they say)
on a faded couch, or maybe it was new.

I think there were tulips, white ones
(but that was later)
I would have brought a daisy.

I met the eyes, they were blue
and foggy (not like hers)
and in a church where life is sanctified
we sing a symphony of rosebuds.

Like figurines, we tiptoe, hushed,
eat tiny cakes, drink tiny drinks
(her dreams are too big to handle).
We toast with tea, hug the smaller, neater copy.

She is so pretty, sleepgirl.

I sit with memories (like hers, now mine)
my rosewood coffin clear as glass.
We reach out dreaming, each asleep, but our fingertips don’t touch.

It happened in my sleep
(they say)
on a faded couch, or maybe it was new.