Murderous little world once our objects had gazes. Our lives
Were fragile, the wind
Could dash them away. Here lies the refugee breather
Who drank a bowl of elsewhere.
Once live X-rays stalked the hills as if they were
Trees. Bones stay now
And their Lent stays with them, black on the nail.
Tattering on the drywall.
Little clicks all night in the back lane where blackness
Goes leaking out the key.
"It twindles," said Father to April on her
Anvil of deep decree.