There he lay in the garden,
Spoked by spitted golden dandy heads,
and Drowned in the cream wash of snowdrops,
Where rivers of writhing milk bottle bodies,
Seeped from his mouth,
crawling along his swollen tongue.

In the May haze and towering pampas grass,
One could not be blamed,
For being unaware of what hid among the blades,
for even sometimes I forgot he lived there
and I mean; I’m the one who lay the calcium carbonate in his bones to rest.