Of course his clothes don't fit
no longer even look like him

and the blue light doesn't suit
whatever tone it is his skin

still keeps. Armour him now,
glove him in chainmail, kit him

in something that clanks
and masks the terrible

thin wight within and
doesn't mock his former

fuller self the way his old shirts
and pants now do with their whispering

threadbare gestures and their dull-
eyed buttons hanging limp

on wilted stalks. They have lost
their character, no wonder

they lie, resentful, being left
behind. Armour him now,

so we won't detect the final
disappearing act until

too late — he's slipped
behind the arras, out

to the graveyard and
under the stone

flowing like smoke
into a signature that could

be anyone's, imprinted
by the mason's hand, our

common dress code.
Read the script.