You'll Stand At My Graveside (after Mary Elizabeth Frye).

You'll remember a bed, a movie, the clothes
that fell quickly when you said, "kiss me,"
"Tell me." And neither 
the slow disrobe of pants and shirt
or honesty -- were bartered for love.
You were skin and so was I.

I was -- what? -- an interim; some waiting room
where wishes were kept and carved
among craven stones: lips and kiss
are impediments now to what was then
desire. Sometimes too much is said
of what is past. 

Don't throw earth on bones.