Is this everything - your name printed on paper two bunches of flowers and thirty-one people with your genes? Stories were never written on a string of DNA.
It is not you I mourn but the walk to your house through the wheat on Dodds lane and the haze on Pyrford roads in high summer. Now, bereft of my place in those times
And here on Oostende’s pallid beach They drew a circle in the sand With one word all could understand A sign within a doubter’s reach They came from Lille and Rome and all
The day the world flinched, like sunlight through a coma they carried their dead on advertisement boards. Surgeons waited like ignoble cannibals to strip out their organs or lay them
How I covet the stucco fronted lives; soft lighting, desirable postcode of those who had chances and better parents. The acerbic brew spilled from my cups filled pages with resentments.