As if he had been poured br in tar, he lies br on a pillow of turf br and seems to weep br br the black river of himself. br The grain of his wrists br is like bog oak, br the ball of his heel br br like a basalt egg. br His instep has shrunk br cold as a swan’s foot br or a wet swamp root. br br His hips are the ridge br and purse of a mussel, br his spine an eel arrested br under a glisten of mud. br br The head lifts, br the chin is a visor br raised above the vent br of his slashed throat br br that has tanned and toughened. br The cured wound br opens inwards to a dark br elderberry place. br br Who will say ‘corpse’ br to his vivid cast? br Who will say ‘body’ br to his opaque repose? br br And his rusted hair, br a mat unlikely br as a foetus’s. br I first saw his twisted face br br in a photograph, br a head and shoulder br out of the peat, br bruised like a forceps baby, br br but now he lies br perfected in my memory, br down to the red horn br of his nails, br br hung in the scales br with beauty and atrocity: br with the Dying Gaul br too strictly compassed br br on his shield, br with the actual weight br of each hooded victim, br slashed and dumped.