Fought uphill through wind and thorns, grass crackling with ice, to rest on the summit…

Nude statue turns its eyes round in its head. I’ve seen that before, in Cocteau’s…

Buried without ceremony. Revealed in the quiet, the lewd posture of death. ‘Laid to rest’…

She draws the steel- toothed comb down the long panels of her wet black hair.…

Drop the blinds, sweep crumbs from blotter, soul bunched at the bottom of the list.…