by David Andrés Alíx

While you go through your private procession

Instead of honoring you with black

I put on white and precipitate your flight

Fantastically frantic

I had my black tailored

But when it was ready

It was too late

I am so sorry

When your march ends

You may be ready

To forgive me for loving more than life

That day out in the lot

Ready to forgive me for loathing more than death

That same day that stopped the clock