At Oscar Wilde’s Grave

Who stole the angel’s glory?

Still, you’ve got the rarest grave in Pere Lachaise,

Granite teeming with lipstick kisses,

A shoal of petals in a mountain lake,

A cloud burst of tropical fish,

And taped to a withering rose there’s a note:

Thank you for teaching me that I was good.

I kiss the teacher too

For you are more than welcome

To the imprint of my gaping mouth

If I can stay awhile in reverence

To watch my wet gift fading,

November sun licking my lips.