From the Westway, slowing, glancing,
flame has revealed the bones of the thing.
A dark lattice. Lives so done away with
they have turned into sky: overcast
or blue as joy, or London’s night.
A home became a crematory,
human heat released into anonymity.
Impossible to remember those we did not know.
Imagination must blank out the sky,
and fill the emptinesses with the flesh
of those we love, and it’s then we gulp,
at how mortal we are, how easily they died.