Gwydir Street Cemetery

They lowered him on string,
his face unshaved and the coffin unhinged,
nothing broke his fall but a green cloth dressed in
storage-cupboard-fluff,
the first death of the second month.


Around him they said silent words, empty sentences
stretching the length of derelict paragraphs: morbid monologues
for the man who used words to fuck up women
and tell them they were beautiful without them ever seeing it,
understanding it,
knowing if he was legit or not.