You always did
try to replace
the words of
the dead like autumn
leaves on summer’s
corpse.
And when they
wouldn’t suit,
or thundered
when you wished
a whisper, then
you poked
the iris of imagination
with
a finger of familiarity.
To counteract
this cataract
of watered-down
words,
I bathed in the
stream of air
you rejected
in favour of wind;
When all I could
do to surmount
this escarpment
was fall through
the blind-sighted
fissures of night-
stained earth,
I closed my eyes
and walked in
the dark.
