Rush me off my feet and put me,
on some mute stale wasteground.
Keep several yards away and pace out
a circle around my signpost figure.
When night draws on and the first
nascent flames flicker unstable in
the near instance,
I shall know truth as you cannot.
A shadow frozen, skeletal, an endless
retreat, smeared relic of monochrome,
ever distant in the oil-washed dawn.
I can’t wave goodbye, now statuary,
scratched ceramic, nothing more.