by Salli Shepherd

You’re on the lawn, pickled
as a paper-bag philosopher, mouth full
of copper and oxidised vinegar—

eyes oyster ant-sand, your cheeks are wet
as the tracks of unhappy snails.
It’s almost dawn. It’s cold. The bastard

left you, and you’ve fallen over
in the garden coming up the path to home.
By morning, frost crackles across

the black hump of your back.
Soon you’ll be glaciered to the grass,
face iced to your coat-sleeve,

and the great, frozen spectacle
of you will grind its way, ten inches a year,
toward the porch. Some day

they’ll discover you, dandelion remains
stuck in your teeth—
fresh, as ten thousand years ago.


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