03 June 2006

Grand Central Station

another incendiary threat, another
train derailed (we walk, like
sheep, directed by the mouth
behind the bullhorn) bobbling
heads, shuffling feet, masses of
puppet-dolls directed round the
tiled laybrinth after our
toil-long day, heels and toes
nipped, cattle, cattle, moving
to the (somewhat) less congested

as polite lines form at the bar cars,
Twomey pours the baby bottles of gin, juniper fragrant,
and breaks into speech--bomb--
bomb threat--we widen eyes
and nod,
--ah, yes, yes, (our throats and
hands and eyes are tied with invisible string) we
say thank-you, we walk
politely--waiting always for
the bombs bursting in air,

our falling, messy-sprawled and
broken, the bits held with
newspaper and plaster of paris
fine creatures, the works of art
we all are

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