Howard Firkin
      On the sea bed you’re a foreigner
            a stranger in your coffin
someone else’s tongue inside your mouth.

      On the sea bed you explore the ooze
            with slipping fingers blunt
and blind as buggery; you still push south.

      On the sea bed you drink whisky neat
            the bloody ice floats north
and watch long fingers wave against the day.

      Settling down the mud is soft as down.
            The last (most empty) bubbles
rise. Eyes fill with salty tears and wash away.