at the end of its life a world is conscious
of not being in love
stars zooming away like romantic mistakes
scientists carrying fish in their armpits
numbering bombs like bottles of mouthwash
while entire streets
stick their noses into junctions of tall buildings
and inhale deeply
my hands
can't find your buttons anymore
have you sold them?
how much did you get?
the street
is cold to all offerings
the choice between apology and war
is made on broken down streetcars
on those steel hands rings of flesh grow
the rings throb unmercifully
grow like worms copulating with themselves
they swell
but cannot scream
there is no mouth to them
instead we watch the skies
for hints of mehanical romance
from The Troubles (1993)
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