The sheer horror of a stranger — no, just _another_. All too much.
This half-guilty, half-glorious suspicion of those you meet.
Even worse is no suspicion. Just don’t touch
the pavement cracks, facial cracks, psychic cracks. For in such
gaps and graves that open is complacency complete.
The sheer horror of a stranger — no, just another. All too much.
Strung yellow tape, sprayed-on tarmac, abandoned crutch.
Our circumscribed circumference divides the streets.
Even worse is no division. Just don’t touch
the moistened tissue frayed and vanished in your clutch.
A tear, a breath, any warm human outlet is pure conceit.
The sheer horror of a stranger — no, just another. All too much.
This new Irish way of death is too little and too much.
All the creeping of the dawn reveals is empty streets.
Even worse is no dawning. Just don’t touch
Each other, or yourself, or anything too much.
Let skin-on-skin cause recoil. Out, out, Macbeth. I repeat —
The sheer horror of a stranger — no, just another. All too much.
Even worse is no others. Just don’t touch.
………..