Always You Die

i.
To song your funeral concludes.

Mother falls to kneel at your coffin
as if it was you.

Rain crawls to earth
where people are quick to return
to the safety

of their own familiar mundane.
Flowers assault nostrils.
Gag reflex in the home
where you touched things.

Grass grows in ordinary places but always
you die.

ii.
Mud feeds on colour.

Water slithers down panes
in a way that led to the chaos theory.

Dock of the Bay hangs in rooms.
I like to believe it was you
wearing Jack Nicholson's eyebrows.

Curtains hang skew at their centre
but dreams keep you in a summer house.
Clouds dim conversation and the weight
of water buries the notion of joy.

Mascara coats lashes in need but always
you die.

iii.
It's a wicked line for the start of winter.

Mist on the windscreen wants fingers
to draw faces on it.

Traffic's stiff like butter on cold toast.
The homeless light fires that dance
and lick sidewalks.

Finger-less gloves are portals
to places where sky
is less far-off than life, and death
is animated.

You passed like a comet but always
you die.