Here’s death, in a netting of cold air;
riding a field of wind it plumes and drifts,
it smacks my cheekbones red,
it gobbles stone.
I’m not the chosen form in this glass shade
though entangled, thin and glinting as a blade.
There’s death; what fun and games. I don’t believe
how neat it pushed you down that spill of snow,
your black head bobbing. You cheerfully miss a bush.
The kickwire’s up. That’s you it will garrotte.
You sail past, death sighs,
‘Game’s up.’ You wave and stop.
here’s death, quick catch,
before it goes away.
She’s in that box (all bow heads
Has she room? She must be laughing?
What dress? Humiliation’s cheap
as they roll her, horizontal, down the aisle
on a (well-oiled, apparently) tea-tray.