In The Hour Of Their Passing

One story ends
following a slow withdrawal,
a moulding into outlines
of greying sheets.
The cells sucking into
themselves,
the hollowed skin
pinned to whitewash walls.

Another sees sparks
that leapt from ragged synapses,
the last of frazzled thoughts,
echoes of echoes
among shuffling strangers
and piss-scented rooms,
the fall that broke him
like an egg.

Not going gently,
she sent a crack through the earth
making sure we knew
she'd gone. A seismic shiver
that rattled the best china
in lacquered cases
and woke me
like a slammed door.