Those books, where’s he taken them, who died? Those were my books.
I know what the other two were. Nobody passed, nobody, the street was
like a funeral procession that had failed to appear, the space reserved
but the burial delayed because the coffin refused to enter the hearse.

Again they tried but it would not move. The road is clear somebody says,
we have to go, but the coffin will not move and so I stare at an empty
street because someone refused to leave. Leaving is nothing; it’s the
arriving that chills us, climb on the hearse will you I’m waiting.

A bus appeared, condensation all over the windows. I laughed at that,
the bodies still warm inside for a ride in one tiny moment of their lives.
It all splashed its way along relieving the tension of a silent surface
on a day that should be warm, this strange chill in the wrong month.

...