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.

Deep in the rich woods

I hear the owl and, two dreams later

I see it, that moony phantom.

Listing on the current, it listens

for the rustle of vole's breath

in the waiting bracken.

Does the housecat, chewing

placid chunks of jellied poultry

crave the heat and carnage

of the still-beating heart?