Rust Sleeps

Rust sleeps without the churchyard on the blunt perimeter rails, on the bloom of iron stabbing up into the pelt of rain. Rust sleeps upon the fence posts where the wire is nailed to wood and the metal burns an ochre tint beneath the sodium arc. Rust sleeps atop the hinges of the pub door so to screech a shrill alert to drunken ears of some returning ghost. Rust sleeps upon the riverbed, suicide pushed into the deep, trolleys severed by the silt, dead baby prams beside. Rust sleeps in feasts of coma night and eats small mouthfuls of the moon, spits corrosion at the stars and dulls this razor life.