in the furthest corner of the churchyard,
underneath oak leaves that shimmer,
the Holy Ghost paces, thumbs in a twiddle;
rustles the tattered cloth on his back.
Over chapped lips
he coughs up a spatter of beetle nut blood into concrete cracks
that feed angry vines
whisper-creeping over his feathered feet,
and flow up in between the crinkles in his robes
(like thirsty soldiers would follow dried-up streams),
through the shabby stitching in the seams,
over fluids that gush from his ears;
settling into the mould
of freakish dreams.