I know you have choked on polished plates

I know you have choked on polished plates

and over boiled greens waiting

whilst rust congealed on the silver.

Open flesh seared in the pot that you have no bitten tongue left to taste

The smell of a nose punch lowering the roof.

You bled silently all over the woods,

you did not scream into the muted mist

but in these shoes made of paper essays,

you wrote and wrote and wrote.