Time won’t cure –
& crows’ll snatch
every left stem in
plots’ jimpy pots –
they pick at them
…/
‘Gavin’ reads an enamel plaque
on a concrete birdbath below
four blue clocks – true north is
implied by one of those faces …/
Inhale those odours within
la Ville Lumière – of corpse wax
found among her exhumed
Draw on le cimetière des Innocents …/
You should turn up
to your funeral –
to hear their eulogies …/
I called it a tithe gate –
but it is a lychgate –
I confused it with barns –
my first mistake …/