Down in the pits there was nothing to do
they ran out of power and there was no light
they spent weeks in the dark on a thread
with an hourly handful of provision
she talks to him on the pillow
the words are blurred in the air
he takes then with pity and reads
the newspaper, he looks at the television
and he is drunk and hallucinating power
his ears are trees on craggy drops
from his eyes emerged flames
running her skin with warmth
that hurt but easily forgotten
whiffs or clouds that remain
as rags hanging from trees
or seaweed exhausted, exhumed
Nicholas Alexander's Poetry