Lost and Found by Robert Powell
Fourth collection from the York-based poet. Then the President asked: Why won't anyone talk to me about Death? There was a long silence. I will, I said stepping forward. The gilded room drained of lackeys, bodyguards, hacks. Then we sat alone and he leaned close, eyes wide, like a child listening to a bedtime story. When we last saw him silhouetted on the dawn sky, the President was a seething pillar black with flies from capital to base; and the bitter air all over our land tasted something like hope something like expiation something like grief.