And all beneath the marble throat,
under knees of blackened fists
are rats and lint cadavers.
Begin and end in burial
in slick earth;
a shelf of grit and worm,
to fester and turn mad in breaths
as days fold into months then years,
skinning organs in nasty hives.
The dead in kicks of hurried heels,
forgotten in their boneless sleep...
@ Steven Francis poems 2011
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
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