The process of decay is at the same time a process of crystallisation…

            Arendt




I’m reading about the man under the ash

whose brain was made black glass by Vesuvius.

Not from his hot stinking breath

but the sudden change as he galloped away:

flank greasy and foamed, heat-mane unfurled,

streaming behind him like an insignia.
Am I meant to draw comfort that the man

died instantly while asleep?

That his skin boiled, fat steamed, nerves dissolved

to sound with one final shout? 
Did he dream the heat or its lack?

Feel its wet kiss or cool alien untouch?

Maybe he’s still asleep, still falling

with the ash. Maybe he goes through

the ash: peeking, feeling, then begging entry

into the starred rips in the Universe’s cloak

until the whole body, mind, slips

and is falling and fell and fallen all at once.