There is a snuffing out
when the synapses stop firing.
The ex-wives fade to black.
His hawks blink.
The Co-op, Jesus, trains and snow glimmer.
Planets spin off the axons.
Our kisses are ashes
blown to the wind.
He lies alone, like a great house
with all it’s furniture moved out;
windows smeared with grease,
electrics, plumbing in such disarray,
builders would suck their teeth,
shrug, turn away.
Flick a switch, see the neurons crackle.
Smell the burning.
- by Lizzie Heath