Split Screen
By Andy Jackson


Who Killed Morse?

It was a superior officer, in the station, with uncompleted paperwork creased into a point,
a publican, at the fork in the past where the story began, with an anagram,
a black-nailed, blackmailed mechanic, in the snug, with a flashback,
a mezzo, in the inspection pit, with a pint so badly kept he saw it seethe,
a don, in the wings of a student Parsifal, with a monkey-wrench,
a ritually dishevelled Mason, in a dreaming spire, with arias,
a crossword setter, in a temple, with the high-lit notes of a plagiarised thesis,
a victim, in the dog ears of the dictionary, with a trowel.
It was a woman, who killed him from the inside out, with refusal.




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