I lie in a foetal fold,
Still born, still as a pillar,
A cold heavy stone,
Unmoved by my existence
Slow eyes roam to find a connection,
My stamp of identity in the empty objects about me,
In the pages of books, in the picture of the nude woman
Pinned to the wall,
Until I am
A fist of poppies exclaim on my desk,
Their angry red shouts in this muted space
And force me into feeling;
An ache of somewhere else.
Full of dying life
Their green stems bend in defeat.
Outside, sick leaves thick with old rain
Stick to a numb ground,
Bruised and useless.
The light is difficult, a brash intrusion,
I close the blind on the day,
Too grey, already read,
A tired repeat.
The poppies call your name,
And I remember you like a wound,
A gaping absence,
An ugly smile,
Its toothless grin mouths me in,
The black gap roars