How Cold

  I've had two damn good hidings, the way
  the summer froze, and the barnacles of light
  attached themselves to skin
  already pinched, thistled, moulded and beaten
  smooth as an aluminium sheet.

  My heart's sclerotic. It bunches like fist,
  grunting in understatement:
  there was a widow who scrubbed it raw
  as a stretch of flagship deck, but left it
  like a pirate with maps in her satchel.

  They broke the spade on the surface,
  on the pewter earth. How cold the hurried
  hands! How cold! The black slab
  of night was shunted across my lids.
  And the rudimentary music, of footsteps.

From the book Looks Familiar