The Left-Behinds.

Night draws close.
It’s cold but to get colder still.
We’ll all be breathing
smoke like we’ve a fire inside,
but we don’t,
and when we piss a dirty gold,
steam lifts
finding nostrils,
and forming a fine dew
on hollow cheeks.

Those that die tonight
their souls will go,
but their bodies will rot,
bloat then sink.
The skin sinks beneath the bones.
Those bastard bones that linger.
And the left-behinds
will spend their last nights
cursing the Lord’s ecliptic,
licked and pinched
thumb and forefinger.


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