As he lay <br />in the pool of his death <br /> <br />the motorcycle continuing on <br />a little further without him <br /> <br />before it too <br />lay down <br /> <br />as if to sleep <br /> <br />he thought the blood <br />was like a child <br /> <br />wetting the bed <br /> <br />and the fear of <br />someone discovering it <br /> <br />in the cold light <br />of morning <br /> <br />he began <br />to cry <br /> <br />just like the boy <br />of then <br /> <br />though this was now <br />and very far <br /> <br />from the place <br />of his childhood <br /> <br />even as the stink <br />of petrol <br /> <br />enveloped him <br /> <br />a bird sang
