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Sky Burial

February 21, 2015


You’d sleep in my shirt.
You slept like the dead.
I’d creep from the bed.
And head up to the roof.
Smoke cigarettes.
Bare chested.
Under bruised-peach skies.
Whilst you slept.
With your legs.
Crossed at the ankle.
All your clockwork.
Pulling me back.
From the girls in the street.
Like the tide.
Rats in a run.
Or legs on a flea.
I’d never felt so very alone.
On that roof.
Whilst you slept.
In my shirt.
On our bed.
I see.
In your eye.
The sun’s reflection.
It kills me.
It kills me dead.
I die.
Each dry evening.
In remembrance.
Of each damp morning.
So let us light.
To remnants.
Cigarettes on sills.
Over still London.
By providence.
I recall.
That sick moon.
Falling upon us.


From → Poetry

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