Unquick, undead, with oyster eyes, he surfs

a toppled tombstone then lurches and trundles
through the poplars, unshapes himself like

an octopus to shimmy through the iron grille
of the perimeter then negotiates a rope-bridge

between definitions: of being and non-being,
immanence and evanescence, the engendered

and the cobbled-together, a zonked mis-stepping
bi-pedal, his flipped orbs miming introspection,

his ragged dentition snapping at shadows.
If he hadn’t been wiped clean of awareness

like a knife, to make him a mere instrument
of the dark forces, to prowl the mean streets of

eschatology, he would know he was doomed 
and could stride from his shelter into an unpeopled

waste, like Captain Oates taking one for the team.
But a poignant scenario belongs in another studio.

In this one he’s a pop-up transplant clinic
harvesting useful parts for the highest bidders

with scraps for himself to keep him ticking over.
His to protect and serve those near-dead masters

who consume the living.