They ended here at Oświęcim, these dead shapes
parted left from right, parent from child.
Taken from a warm foot this Mary-Jane lies lost
amongst the heaped Oxfords, Brogues and T-straps,
draggled carcases.
 
Little victims, their withered tongues insinuate.
Tone deaf now to the dance music
they play at rigor mortis, not quite stiff,
they loiter ready for the walk home
in darkness.
 
In this room is a long black drop.
At its edge the fleshless stand over us
as we gawp clear eyed behind glass,
and pass along the window,
humbled.
 
They seem to cling to each other;
a grey brown amalgam hand in hand,
half lit.  At the front a red sandal
taps the glass, and from it sadness
pours like water.