Nascent Noyade

They thought he was an ashtray
   until he stood,
   grey and crumbling,
   denim clumped and cracking,
   paper clefts of skin
   worn from use.

His hair was wild dendrites
   wisping off his skins;
   his lips parted, dropping gravel,
   before they knew
   he was a man.

He'd been a swan, once;
   but his feathers were forgotten,
   even their memories pawned off
   to wet his lips:
   he breathed
   spit-flecks of gin.

Bloodshot and squeezed,
   his eyes leak sand,
   and it's like crying.
    They took pity
    until his plucked palm came down
    open,
    so as not to leave a mark.

He beat them bleeding
   while holes in his hands
   ever widened,
   ready to slip up
   upon his barren cross.

He bellows to them then:
   he's reached the end of his rope.
   Only, turns out,
   it was always just a noose.

There's no room in heaven
   if you're not beautiful;
   so they dragged his body into the woods
   and broke him,
   in want of bread.

The owls,
   who are secret-keepers,
   shook,
   but did not stir.