A Passing (IP)

Under silent cityscape penumbra

flits a linen shroud in billowing black.

It covers candles and the weeping liars.

Folds away empty sandwich trays.

In a pregnant room he rests,

darkening Polaroid. Posed, cut,

snipped to the inch of Eighties style, curls

once of fire now of ash.

Pilotless, abandoned

vessel, carcass, holding cell,

suffers one more slow effacement, a preparation

by fluid dripping Daliesque

on hollow teak. In the fire halo - hungry echoes,

creaks of wisdom in the yawning flame.

Starlings escape the faceless wind,

to roost in chimney’s wombing warmth.

Night arrives to veil the living in

snowed-in limbo. The melting trenches

blink wide, fissures gape, mirrors crack

exorcizing steam from gaping gutters.

He escapes.

Let the dying embers take his face,

his eyes that could ignite the night,

he was my world, creased, composed

once of fire

now of ash.