A poem for Cory Monteith

To excavate the future
swing the shovel
above your head.
The air will thicken
into teak-coloured earth
and lie tidily,
in easily dated layers,
waiting for the dirt brush
and the scales
of an archaeologist.

Time can only be buried
by time. I roll
out of the hotel bed,
feel the cold shrink my cock
through two layers of jeans,
and walk across the room
through tonnes of tight-packed
earth.

Out the window
a few stars shine greenly,
like glow worms.
A stone has put out
the streetlight's eye.
My hand shakes the pills
like rosary beads
or dice.

I am not here
but elsewhere.
A brush cleans my forehead
like a lover
or nurse. Scissors
undress me. My skull balances
on a scale. Leave me
in the future,
in the air.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]