A Musical Sonnerie

Bodies,
That we used to 
spoon with
On chilled marrow nights
Sheltered beneath the
balmy gust
Of a downy duvet
Whose cheeks we lip surfed
On birthdays
And on
Christmas mornings
When we stood in the
ankle deep
Euphoria of madly shredded
gift wrap
Like a pair of parade floats in a sea
Of just landed confetti
Are
Suddenly
Gone
Erased
Like the ghosts of 
The Holocaust 
Who left behind
An inheritance of sad-eyed
Photographs
Of haunted prey
And an heirloom
Like a musical sonnerie
With a solid gold dial
That played Carillon
From Bizet’s L’Arlesienne
Whose three-note figure
Conveyed the peal of
Funeral bells
Which our dead
Our beloved
Never got to hear
That was inscribed with the words
“Our hands will always meet
At midnight.”