we rowed his grim and dirty remains
out deep into the darkness of the night bay.
Rolled him into clear cold water.
No rocks in pockets to weight him down,
we didn’t clean his mouldy corpse,
the seas salt would scrub us off his hideous hide.
We used arms and the levering weight of timber oars
to tip his body over board,
echoes of his filthy flesh and slithering insistent fingers
still too familiar for our trembling hands to touch.
The crescent moon sailed high
in the expanse of summer sky,
the hue of day time blue pressing through
the shining opalescent of predawn.
It would be another warm summer day
but to us the heat died when we killed,
took revenge, on the weaver of burning stabbing sins.
Summer ended with a splash from a skiff,
the night we killed Bob Crane.