Hang on, Mrs Poole, and you'll be all right,
as the building crashes down in showers of dust
around you and you are, like, somewhere in there, and I
have to say I never liked you much Mrs Poole, for you were
a right screechy bitch, when me fambly and me
came down for the holidays.
Oh, so you're dead now. They'll be giving you the Albert Medal
posthumously. So very sad. HA! But I want to be sure
you are really really dead: I can see you coming back again
as a ghost, something not too far away from you ....
The worst possible facet of failed communication
is murder, face to face. But it has its place and time.
I step out into the narrow thronged alleyways, sure
of my way. Canals, canals. It doesn't take that long to learn
the ways of this city, the water taxis, no, I can walk,
I can walk, but the matter of escape is a different thing.
There is no escape.
The Furies they can come roaring after me
times, times, some day they will find me
either here or there, it doesn't matter.
