Millipede

I'd stolen a staff from the housewarming

having prodded it at old ceilings

steel-plated and sonorous

to hear the halfpennies rattle.

It thunks through muffled streets

and I follow, each step unfurling

the cautious web of dawn.

A pause and I find you, curled

in death as small and perfect

as the silence permeating me.

I collect you

rob the robin of its birthright

for my own suburban whim,

leave the staff leaning in weak tribute

against the spent pebbledash.

I crouch on my bed, now, clutching you

to watch the sky's soft peach belly

breach equal into dark and gleaming parts.

I stroke your filaments, find them unyielding

tough to the touch, yet so delicate

so deft in their weightlessness;

when I fling you from the window

and sleep empty-handed, I feel you still

pressed resolute in my palm.