The Dead
They buried him in a shoebox
amongst the terraced stones,
packed in tight as teeth.
God help the hand that puts me there.
Don’t sandblast my name
on a bookmarked bible slab.
Don’t trap me in an eight by six,
gawked at by the passing bus
as next door’s dog lifts its leg
on my standard kerb surround.
Scatter me at my cottage by the sea.
I’ll ghost the garden,
haunt the coal-smoked hall,
creak and crack the rusted taps,
ripple on the bullseye glass.
I’ll sink into whitewash,
seep into squat, mottled magic,
my salted, unrestricted shrine.