we are dead men again

back from secondment to the living

resuscitated by clerical error

only to be unborn

like an upsy-daisy brush fire

reverted back to dull smoke and wet logs

like an anti-clockwise Phoenix

like a reverse mortgage

we are dead men again

left over, and

left behind men

like a calico swirl of leaf litter on asphalt

ran-over, tired men

worn down rubber men

trying to erase the past — but

stuck: re-running around

the same seasons —

the same lights,

the same camera,

the same action

stuck: re-winding back again

the same spoiled ending

we are dead men again

stuck on repeat men

as if the entire historical record

were burnt onto a scratched

bootleg CD

stuck

like a rainbow inside an oil slick pool

with no start and no end

and no direction for a future —

real or imagined —

pot of gold

stuck

navel-gazing

like the painter who realises

every still life will perish too

no different than the bowl of oranges

gently yielding their form to an eclipse

of powder green mould

stuck

like a puzzle piece forced into play

with the right look

but in the wrong place

at the wrong time

always

taking the mulligan, again, and again

but still stuck

unable to match the picture on the box

unable to solve the boundary crux

unable to find the final fit

not now

not quickly

not at all