She has made her own tomb
from boulders, railway sleepers and turf
A valve radio
a pound of bone meal in a paper bag
a black cat
all hidden on the moon
Look from the attic window
a cottage cut into the hillside sea air
waves as high as Garth Mountain
She has painted the inside with red and green lacquer
beautiful birds, peacock, phoenix, eagle
the sky is pure gold
Ghosts of ancient flesh walk the crater's rim
blurred and wrinkled
the web has caught them
Notes from a pre-war Gibson haunt steps and cellar
a door leads to a path footbridge
someone has stopped to watch the river
Songs never heard
turn enough to slip into fog
~ ~ ~
He didn't mean to
it just struck him
the city loved him
and he loved the city
more than anyone
but then he drifted off
into thoughts of eating flesh
your flesh
cube by cube