Nemesis

Words were dust-sheets, blinds.
People dying randomly, “for want of breath”
shadowed my bed-times.
babies happened; adults
buried questions under bushes.

Nouns would have been too robust
for body-parts; they were
curt, homeless prepositions- “inside”
“down here”, “behind”, “below”. No word
for what went on in darkness, overheard.

Underground, straining for language
that would let me out, I pressed to the radio,
read forbidden books. And once
visited Mr Cole. His seventeen