Uplever her night bones slowly,
expose them to lightning flash;
trowel her maid crystals gently,
under the burial ash.

Here clings her matrix mould,
worm-pierced, run with white root,
powder of blackwire hair
dry death on each living shoot.

The plough has revealed the message
of the faceless spine to the lark,
crushing her femurs, surrendered
as if to a ghost from the park

by Eric Ratcliffe

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