Because life goes on with trolleys and racks
in the light and the dark, in spasms that clutch something
almost nothing of what remains, it spreads
out like that snoring in the universe you call
your neighbour. You must go closer. Through the fair
fluttering worlds that are what you can see
in the birdsong’s grey-flickering cuts in the grief.
The wet and the dry monsters wag their tails.
If they’ve been allowed to keep them. There’s
a big circle when the animals say goodbye.
While the pretty, capable ambassadors of the future
submit their credentials to my white
blood cells. There’s a burning in one foot.
There’s an emergency vehicle on its way in the oesophagus
in a southbound direction, I repeat: Dr. Carrot
and Dr. Stick are in a meeting, this is the last call
for passengers to The Old World. All
others are asked to stand up and say thank you for the ride.