In Crow Robes (Whitechapel)

A Robe to mask death's slow incision.
A Robe to eviscerate Will.
A Robe to upend all decision.
A Robe to make everything still.
In Crow Robes my total is Vision.
In Crow Robes my presence is nil.

The City sifts me like
The finest grain
Through its mortar, its gravel, its rain
And gazeless faces glazed with days
Stare through me.

Dissolute.
Desolate.
Elevated.
Absolute.
Plasma.
Miasma.
Corpuscle.
Sinew -

- these are another matter to me.
The night-paved streets are another anatomy.
My robes are Dusk's marrow
Through water-pipe, wheelbarrow,
Furnace and factory,
Everything, everything, peels back to me.