But her satisfaction was as far away as the sun. She begged him to get the scraper he used on bricks and use it on her.


This husband loved his wife who was now only a skeleton. He kept scratching the air where she had been long after the bones had gone.


An empty Verse


This verse has brave headlines behind which burn real bodies which don’t symbolise anything.


This verse has cities reduced to rubble and cities restored to plaster, it has cabinet ministers preserved in alcohol; it has no disgrace.


This verse is not alone, although in nights so silent even the streets are mute and every light has gone out in the facing tower blocks, it tells itself there is no other verse like it in the world, nor on any of the moons of Jupiter.


This verse aches with an inarticulate loneliness, even so, because it knows that is not thus, for every verse is like it but it can phone up none of them, not even long distance; nor Facebook them as friends.


This verse has no heart, because if another verse did phone it up in the night it would shout Fuck off Shakespeare and hang up.


This verse is empty, yet doesn’t hold water, nor serve as a sieve by separating coarse from fine.


This verse says it is prepared for the worst, but imagines decay is mere bad luck and forgetting; all but an interval in memory (not vice versa), and all the moons of Jupiter mean absolutely nothing.


This verse has room for more still, because it is a horseshoe with its ends pointed up to catch falling angels.


DAVID R MORGAN 5


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