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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  Krishan Coupland

Published on: 1/18/2013

We knew him by the things he left:
crumbs of himself,
dishes mouldering in the sink and
humid walls.
A smell like burned bread.

He was more his shadow than his shadow,
padding sock-softened feet in 3AM quiet.
Click-prang of toast, glub of coffee.
And sobs, sometimes.
Which we all ignored.

Published on: 1/17/2013

When I cough,
hard, lungs rattling,
cogs and tiny springs
burst out, plip like spittle
in the foam-scummed sink.

My joints tick,
tight as mousetraps.
I spill coffee, break plates,
ruin cheques a dozen times over.
At night, my fingers clamp tight
on the duvet
and won't let go.

Being clockwork,
one aches to be
To sleep,
to never need winding,
to have a heartbeat, and dreams.

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