dis-inter

I buried you here again
Re-exhuming you is painful
but it's become a habit. I
take small pieces of you
with me, festering and lonely,
as I stalk the Heath,
tweed-clad and nasty in
my outrage. That's all spent
now, it's borrowed fakery that
propels me forward into dark
moors and deep inebriations.
Mine is a pit lined with best
intentions where I lay you as
needs be, into each new impression
like a child may a toy in
dirt-box dreams. I've no
recompense but digging into hard
brown earth, ripe and truffle-
filled - as a pig in swill.

But you weren't buried here or
anywhere
Fire consumed you, melted rings
accusing us all of conspiracies of
neglect and indolence - of being
too unaccustomed to your absences
and to render uncanny, your long
and strange delays.
there's an odd veracity in death
that seems to spit finality in
the face of our fragility - to
scream the coming of cessation
in our light frame as to
crumble in under the extreme
pressure of mortality.