You’d fit better in a laboratory. 
You sun-bleached parcel of protein and collagen. 
Once coated with bracken-red meat 
this moving jigsaw you were once part of. 
The grass tussocks like hair hungry 
for flesh that has dissipated into biotic tubes 
of beetles and maggots. Rocks protrude 
over the edge, hoping for a foot to pitch 
them on a passage. No one will touch you. 
Even the insects have deserted you. 

You will never move again. I saw an x ray 
of my shoulder once. Ghostly scaffolding 
in a screen void. I graze the warm dip 
beside my neck, this blade a bodily basin. 
Those radiographers lifted my skin, 
mask over mortality. But then the hint 
was always right here in my knuckles 
when I clench hard enough and white 
peers daringly through the skin, like a ghost 
under a sheet. Is that how you feel, now, 

with only the fog to cover you? 
Tell me, did a little lamb ever ossify 
in your skeleton? Did you watch 
as that miniscule clavicle helplessly formed? 
Who would have thought it would outlast 
those wiry muscles and arrogant heart. 
Those plastic, jewel encrusted skulls 
in shop windows got it wrong. 
This is death. Lying on the edge of nowhere 
with only the wind left to breathe. 
With or without life, there is still 
existing to be done.