The sshsshssh, the chambery smell of the dark
were borne from room to room by the Chapel official
in sniffs, her sideways glances, even in the look
with which she turned out of the candle’s blue-ringed circle

with over-earnest tact: the crucifix above your toes
offered proportion to sacrifice – its striped dazzling image
waylaying the retina among the shadows
when I confronted your final, fuck-it-all visage:

you might have moved, brother, but couldn’t slip
the shackle of muscles which almost secured
a smile, thumbed and moulded to reshape
the malleable substance – your grim composure.

And for the more, there was only less;
and for your brow a freezing, terrible kiss.