Yes, I remember the Dunns—

The pun of that pained twist of death

Where all that could be done was done

Despairingly. But was not enough.

Days we lay, curled like prawns in the arms

Of a brown leather sofa, crying for

A death we knew would come

As sure as rain, but hoped would not.

It was a quick shove in the end,

A cut and push of muscles and slipped

Mess, like a bag of soft black velvet

Left out in the wet too long, and lost.

The curl of wax in the water was the only sign

Black folding back to black.

The clouds parted for us, then,

And we saw a crowd of shining stars, like tiny hands.