The day funereal.

The heavy sky sees me elsewhere -

buried deep within the hospital's antiseptic bowels.

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Weeks hardly anything;
Nothing breaks this ice-cracked glass,
this pre-winter silence, unhallowed, frost-brown earth.

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What am I if not a sigh – blate.
A brief exhalation that pares the soft half-closed barrier of your lips.
I am the ever steady silence;
the fill the space where I once was; me your hungry ghost.

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Years I have carried that silver spoon
engraved in careful script with the word “Happy”.
I keep it in a silver butter-dish by my bedside;
a sacred object; a small piece of you.

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Lover’s eyes open their salty spigot;
cry a sea in which we gladly drown.
How does a lover cry against a broken, falling, failing brick wall in the city…
A rushing by bicycle sweeps through the heart’s blood,
sending shrieking crimson drops into the air,

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