It was the first time I'd died. In-
convenient, to say the least. But

not as fearful as thought, more
a faint, with a trickling erotic

surge of charge, pulsed on a
sigh's expulsion. Yet what came

after, ducks, that were other,
swimming with dialects alien

as fish. Shifts, scenes, places, gath
-erings of where. Me there, here,

'nd not anywhere. Then then found
it. The what I cannot say.

A spin, a twist, and woke, thought,
as if in hospital. On a strange bed

where Mickey Hannah said: you belong
to Spot. Go back.
                         Because I coughed.
And I did and

snapped upright with a stare
glazing my eyes
                      in my own living bed.

Reaming with the tales of my head.

David Bircumshaw