this infection

seashells gently drift
beneath these white-foam waves,
this endless, rolling sea.

Because I once rose from the sea
I fling myself into the sea.

My keys, my locks, my music box -
you threw my things into the sea.

The way we touched when first we met,
the gifts you bring - this blue, the sea.

My fingers, bare of anything.
You thre my ring into the sea.

Oh Siren, must your cry by hoarse?
You sing like one who knew the sea.

winter trees lean down
ice-laden branches. this frost
haunts my finger-tips.

frostbit, the age-old
ache buries into the bone.
it melts, but does not thaw.

no footsteps marr the
ground on which we walk. i am
the first to cross this path.

black rook, stark against
the muted sky. it does not
remember the rest.

a leaf that falls and
crumbles to the ground. footsteps
crush all that is left.

december pearls touched,
covered our empty stage. leaves,
hidden beneath these
rocks, these well-worn stones.

The stillness of a stark night envelopes
me. It is dark. I cannot see.

The clean white sheets are threatening.
It is like climbing into a hospital
bed, and I am uneasy in its folds.

Oh, I am old, and covered in aches.
The stiffness of my limbs belies my age.
The ensuing years have done little to
dull the memory of what was done to me,

but there is nothing I can do except breathe,
breathe, breathe. No dreams.
The sheep are all dead,

caught in the act of trying to fly
over a moon that was too high.
The act of dying -
they land on the spikes of a fence.

And I am sure I know what happens next.

There is nothing that can ease the tempest
in me. I watch the ceiling. I continue
not to sleep.

The day the air breathed into
fog, the truck drove headfirst
in the frozen pond.

A cracking of the ice, a sheet of
white masked what most thought of as an
accident,

though it was clear that it was
not. The guardrails, well-defined,
the bend of road belied
the truck's intent. 

Methodically, the truck swerved off the
road and, calculcated, flew into the air.
With fender pointing up toward the
sky, the cab and hood crashed down and
disappeared.

A copse of cops and passers-by
stopped by to see the truck that did not fly.

Now he is drowned.

there is a ghost beneath the stairs
with long and cracking finger-bones,
i do not know how she got there.

maggots crawl in matted hair.
the corridors, she stalks alone.
there is a ghost beneath the stairs.

a hollow grin, an empty stare,
protruding ribs and collarbones.
i do not know how she got there.

the howling wind is cold and bare,
the air is thick with growls and groans.
there is a ghost beneath the stairs.

the muted voice of some despair
is cracked with age and overgrown.
i do not know how she got there.

a shroud of rags is all she wears.
they killed her once with sticks and stones.
there is a ghost beneath the stairs,
i do not know how she got there.

she walks in through a haze of smoke,
she was a girl, she's now a ghost.
her stench reverberates the air,
her scalp is white. she has no hair.
the bones protrude throughout her skin,
she once was fat. she now is thin
with ears as sleek and pointed as
with hearing, small and like a bat.
she does not walk. instead she goes
on archéd foot atop her toes.
her eyes are dim with muted sight -
there's something here that isn't right.

her gown is lace and tattered rags,
beneath her eyes are hollow bags.
her cheeks are shrunken, sunk in deep.
her mouth surrounds so many teeth.
she's bruised and scarred from head to limb
with flesh decayed and mottled skin.
there's something bad that's happened here -
her mouth is slashed from ear to ear.

a glasgow smile, chelsea grin,
but chelsea won't be home again.