by Clayton Lear
-
- You polish the barrel of your gun
But I sit in a box, hung
With the rest in the dark.
Children�s feet on the stairs
Rattle us around: its high, our sound,
And soon quiet. Below us,
Below the folds of rods and
Unwound lines, a school of worms
Struggle in a toffee tin. There�s
The smell of soil and decay of
Some of their dead, around which
They trash a blind and silent song.
In the dark we dream
Of sinkers: they�ll pull us
Down into the cold rabble
Of water and skewered with bait,
We�ll wait for flesh to come
And wrap us up, warm.
- You polish the barrel of your gun
