We All Make Mistakes
I lie here, plugging my nostrils
with soft cotton cloud:
in a dream, perhaps, of non-event.
The liver of Lon Nil.
Son Sen and family, under the tracks
of the tyres. Two million
tidied quietly into votive bone.
It never occurred to me,
sliding here into sleep like a leech
loosing its grips on skin.
And so I cannot smell
the stench of my corpse, nor how
the ice, melting,
stains the morning air.