Ten years on and he lives in the garden shed.
He can hear the dog barking rifle shots
but he takes it with him on his runs to muzzle him.
A dew-white spider web’s a trip wire, grass
is hissing warnings but it’s too late to report them.
The wind’s whisper is a signal from the sniper
on the cliff and that cold-eyed seagull will detonate
the myrtle bush that lies in his path as he runs, his body
not his body. The sound he makes with his damp feet-
splashes will lead to a logjam of sodden corpses
in a sluggish river. There will be a moon that says
movement behind him in his front yard 6 o’clock.
He has a wash in dark soy sauce, rallies for combat,
face black. His good ear’s a ringing cup of silence.