On a Wednesday afternoon
in the rain,
at Lostock Station,
they found her broken bones
& battered books:
The careful way in which they stepped
over her, placating her wounds
never knowing;
she had gnawed the bones
of Byron and Yeats, had sunk Shakespeare
deep in her mid-summer pelvis of aging
& bloody loss,
the letting out of woman
How would they know:
their ivory pens
and nibbed nibs protruded
like a fake penises lost inside faux pas pants
and heavily stained paper-mache mouths
just mumbled, this and that.
Soaking wet by the railway track
on Wednesday, in the rain
under the fibreglass roof
under her sieved eyes
and her brailled mind
that bled to the ticket-master.
Adding your comment:
There is so much that can be read in this. The mindframe of the reader will take this to places you may not have intended; I like that.
Although a little gory, yes
