When the light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Half-bloated, half-empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

Their imperial chatter of “wake up!
Wake up!” reminds me of my choices,
The choice to wear knitted coats
And button-up sleeves, perhaps
If I wear a hat, the voices shall cease ?

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Balancing on the curb in my puzzled clothes -
I shall profess;

“I am uncrowned but I am dressed, and
They have banished me to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed
Where all that can be said,  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

The crowds will reply
In their final utterings
And frayed mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

Here, my wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, it is only my
Hands that appear to bleed
This deceased shade of red,

Here are my belongings:
The rumours that are soaked
And promised - the words
That are often misread
But never misspoke,

And with my tongue dipped in the gutter -  
I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates have closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead ?
I fear that I am dead.’ ”

But I am not yet dead, my
Pulse still breaths see, it
Marches on without cowardice, it
Rallies my heartbeat
And commands my legs to charge -
  
Down, down, down the crevices
And the isolated paths, the
Uncharted cracks
And the unironed creases
Where ill bachelors linger
And their estranged daughters
Snigger; “my daddy is
Dying, look at him quiver
And squirm, doesn’t he
Remind you of the worm!”,

I do hope they ignore me, if
Only they knew
How fragile I have become
They would bombard me
With lethal profanities,  
Anchoring my ears
To their vile screech, and
I speak, and on I speak;

“Be kind to the gentle man,
Let him speak to the birds
If it pleases him,

Buy him a loaf of fresh bread
So that he may feed them, and
Listen to what he has said;

‘Am I dead ?
Indeed, I am dead.”

There will be no obituary
In the Sunday paper, nor
Any grieving stones
In the Vicar’s lawn, and
No bereavement cake
On the Baker’s counter,

(Oh, however will they mourn ?)

There will be no joy left
To cure the funeral blues
And no pick-me-ups
In the mornings after news,

There will be no murmurs
From the Sisters
And no whispers
That slither through
The cracks in the doors,
There will be no answers
Of any sorts, there
Will be no answers at all,

Everything is trivial now,
All null and dispersed
And the light
That was diminished
Has up and fled
To a vacant universe,
Where all that can be said;

“Am I dead ?
Is this what it is to be dead ?.”