No, I don't believe in god.
I lie in Southend at the birth
of the bridge which falls short,
watching the planes scratch
the blue coffin lid and I spell
their fearful tartan with my eyes.
Blades tickle the nape of my neck
and daisies tremble at my feet
and my hands and my ears.
Salty words blow sickly notes
in my nose and I lament.
He knows where I am.