Christmas At Christchurch
I feel translucent
a man of marble skin
as if dreaming my motions
every step a tread in water
each reach of my hand
a ghost grip touches
but nothing holds and yet
I clutch these stones and
iron spear barricades
as a sea-snail would the bedrock
for this is my folly
to hug close the masonry of charity
I feel nothing
no remorse runs down my arms
to my useless wrists
no rage
twists my mouth into rabid snarl
no pleasure lifts my face
from the footfalls
of those celestial beings
bustling above
not even a soaked black wall
on which I am a shadow
penetrates my deadened hide
I feel grotesque
I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone
sown into the fabric of these
towers with closed doorways
that form broken arch homes
for broken things
but
no longer am I broken
I have embraced
the cold and hunger
of my mouth and my soul
I am free of this place
Yet
here I am still
here for you to see
if you can stomach
to see me
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