There’s death in the air, the type of death that
floors her like a sack of potatoes,
head thwack on concrete.
The type of death in the faintness of rain drops.
Death in their persistence and never fading
Death, he with the tremors on the arm of the bench.
Death holding him, pulling him through.
Death when he calls me a sportsman.
There’s death because there’s a time to die and now is the time.
Death in the aloneness, death in coming together.
Death to stragglers converging on high streets.
Death walking on yielding legs.
Death toppling, death overturning.
Death rigid, cracking your bones.
Death with your hands flat on the road.
The ribbon of blood.
When the heart just gives way.