-
- Night hangs back up with the ghosts
of guilt
- under the roofbeam,
grinning.
-
-
- Eyes grope among the furniture
- like hands for missing keys,
- for the cigarette dropped in the
coughing fit
- for the reassurance that is
always
- the condemned man's last meal in the
death cell.
-
-
- Minutes spill from the clock
- rocks on a distant hillside
- topple to giggles of
pebbles...
-
-
- An avanlanche of powder-snow
prickles the lungs.
-
-
- Flakes of sensation. Shards of
memory.
- The steady drip of terror
- from the broken stop-valve in the
skull...
-
-
- A bare foot slides into the
slipstream..
-
-
- A graveyard vomits horror to the
wind.
-
in the Man Agenda 1977
15(1):36
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