Will of the slaves
The city
trembles.
Dust
rises,
curtains
flutter;
a tempest
breaks.
Ileus
Pathologists had probed his blood,
saying it was probably an “electrolyte” imbalance,
and the surgeons had opened up his guts
suggesting it was “a perforation” or “an obstruction”,
or “a tumour” or something.
On the operating table
he lay, still, naked and cold,
his viscera exposed –
with no apparent cause.
Digging
Perhaps,
if you’d dared
to trek
afield,
beyond the calm
semblance of day,
you’d hear
the angry toil
of the pen,
pike and spade,
digging.