The dog’s foot scratches on the wood
that the men put in
clay pipes in mouths,
their moustaches and hats.
Old dog foot and old cat claw too.
And beneath –
a hundred thousand mice,
and rats.
Dust of a million clothes moth wings’
the damp sausage link of their grubs
the silvery drag of a bath full of slugs.
And the scratch
of a metric tonne of house spiders.
Lemon pips.
Coins: 1d 2d ½ pennies.
One £5 coin commemorating the marriage of Diana Spencer
and the Prince of Wales posted through a crack by a visiting child.
Dust that was once a custard cream,
undisturbed by mice.
Pistachio shells.
Two stick on nails
colour: August sunset.
Black plastic comb – some hairs knotted at the base of the teeth,
some scalp and brill cream on the tips.
Curtain hooks: twelve
Human tooth,
root intact.
A CD, Sarah Mclachlan’s single Angel, out of its case
slipped off the back of the dresser, right down between the floorboards.
Hair, enough that it seems deliberate insulation.
Cigarette filters – nine.
A flat silver battery, the kind used for an electric scale
having flown from the packet upon opening.
And the last bristles from your face
that are not ash
blown by the wind in autumn
in the park on sunset.
The murmur of blood through the heart,
this was mine.