I am returning dead – somewhat still.
Muscles spring-locked in bed.
Warcries from the radio, picking up
The shipping news of Mars, the morning
Has come, but the night has not gone.
There is not even a squirt of Capri-Sun.
Rach is dolling it out, a woman has lost
Her man to his father, truly a mood
Like a full-moon:
‘OH VANKA! You devil-may care fellow’
‘OH CAESAR! You Stubborn-Headed…’
Slam the door, turn the bolt and out,
Everything is still, it is all in place
And waiting, the silver drops are on the branch.
As my head passes beneath them, the wind comes up,
Sends them down, 23 of them, all cold-sharp,
