Dead Man, One Year On
My scattered specks are in St Vitus dance.
You must be calling me.
But I'm disassembled. No me, only my want.
Not yet thin enough to sleep.
No sleep since the day I didn't wake.
Where are my football boots?
Here is not a place, I am not here,
no seasons, no colour
no time where pulses do not beat.
All is slow dispersal, rising entropy.
I can no longer differentiate you
lover, mother, son. Only the baby
whose name is lost to me
has its own shape.
Are you suckling still? Are you a boy?
Two fish please, with vinegar.
Next year you'll all be nothing
but shadows in deep fog,
your calling weaker
my dust more thinly spread
and I - not I -
won't fidget in my sleep.
Where are my feet?
