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.