concentration of moths
confined in an area, defined
by the streetlight’s narrow reach.
carcinogenic smoke
is nothing in the pitch-black,
out of sight unless with infrared.
god doesn’t notice
and i evade his written list of people
to slow-purge with agonizing terminal illnesses.
six is the proverbial depth of death.
feet is okay but in metres – clearly not.
conversions kill.
rosewood coffin under excessive weight
creaks in a lyrical tune the musician inside
would have composed if he were still alive
which he isn’t, but i am – again
climbing a ropeless climb
out of yet another shallow grave
that’s not quite shallow enough.
shirt, hands, fingernails soiled;
after i clean myself, i clean forget.
Glenn Fang
Ijagun Poetry Journal 