Dying is a warm beer

A snap of the glove
the curve
of the latest finger

my pearls
turn into
black pools.

With every thorn
I squirm
like the new child
my pink face
crumples like paper.

Blue, blue
this costume is mine
until I’m new.

I lay awake
on my sticky bed
with all my neighbours

I’d never known so many
shades of white.

Dan Stringer