no eulogy for the undead

If I unverb you,
               unyellow your fingers,
               unsmoke
those Rothmans,
and 100th
               tea,
I’d untock the ticks
               through winding mountains
where someone told me, “Child,

he’ll soon un-be.”

You’d unslap me
               by a building,
and on the docks
               buy me
t-shirts, one
for the price
                of three.
I’d unblack the words
               in an elevator
               dark
from ground floor
to infinity.

                No room
service, still
               you’d unspar me,
and I’d tell you,
unfuck you,
               and we wouldn’t be
writing a eulogy

about love undead
               and boats not bobbing
and a verb
               unyellowed
in words left
                unsaid.