"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
there are flecks in the bones of you
all pock marked like wood worm holes.
Arthritic joints have been laid upon a bare slab,
this sacrificial altar for a public ritual.
Your pieces are now abstract from your flesh –
five thousand years in ashes and dust,
and you are here. This unfamiliar coffin of glass
with unfamiliar faces, we fluid masses.
Not rubble like you. your brittle bones a feast
for hallow eyes. whose home is sod and soil.
you lie silent with toothy smile, eyes wide open
body shod and broken.