A Poem: "He's Dead"

 “He’s Dead”

She lies on the sofa 

Silence like sleep,

A dream’s presence

Clothing the room.

And she hears the pips

Hit the brass bowl

Red tributaries run

From cratered springs,

Wounds in a wreck

Sprawled upon tiles.

And she hears the pips

Hit the brass bowl

Motes in silence.

These noises dust,

A stranger’s steps

A large brisk broom.

The bowl waits

For the pips to play

A phrase detonates

An incendiary silence;

Her words scream 

Shrapnel into the room.

And she hears the pips

Hit the brass bowl

When they find him,

An overripe fruit

Its juice babbling

Over a bloody floor.