Faux leather booklets
bundled together with the soft stretch
of an elastic band.
Kept in the grey filing cabinet,
alphanumeric code surrounded by chevrons.
Broken spines, empty pages
untravelled, serious faces under laminate.
A person cropped,
abbreviated tales in lingua franca
and the native tongue mute.
- I’ve got friends in low places croons out of the radio,
crackling as the signal swings this far out.
A loose St Christopher medal
once well rubbed
sits atop the royal purple bodies.
As we are shuffled from work to rest,
Tomasz, Jakub and I mould to each other
in corrugated buildings.
New forms are filed when others expire.
Juda slipped from the pack, later found
wound in his own binding,
finally known but too late to be fully known,
his silence a scream
to our muffled shouts and cries.