The trapdoor at the bottom
asks questions round and round
and in a creaking tenor, calls
to a tatterd collage, made from bits of cloth
that sits below the varnished wood
worn from dancing days.
And there, the shattered form of me
bent and fallen from glowing sunlight
summoned to those fading photographs
Pulls about a rich black agony
heavy, sweet and cold.
When I find some light to hold
and memories melt to dust,
your fading face persuades me
to slip between the floorboards
and find a blacker place