Crocuses
In the seconds after
the knock he may have
tried to burn the poem
that would kill him. But
words are hard to
kill. Print turned
silvery as the page went black.
They put him in the big
house on the outskirts with
white bedsteads and no
windows. But word
went down the heating pipes,
leaked out through
even screamproofed walls.
In the end someone probably
shot him on a train
going east, or just off it,
and hid the body in the
ground. Here and there his
words came slowly up like
crocuses, in winter.
Page(s) 60
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