Here, and hear how their footsteps trip trap
in echoes, a tattoo in one of those forgotten
places, where trolls would not thrive.
Beneath this bridge, slug trails slime brighter
on a sodden sleeping bag in the rhythmic
swing of searchlight than urgent dayglow,
shrieked in wall-scriven prophesies of rising water;
She was someone’s Daughter,
exposed, under a starless arc, one thin wrist
mapped by shrunken veins, the same as me or you,
her life’s journey retold in stillness, foretold
by indifference of those whose skies are blue.