Movements

In the train station,
One of Earth’s old men
Is missing a leg.

‘You’re crying in public again’
She says, turning her head away.

I weep for the missing leg,
And for nothing else.

Each pneumatic cough
And muscular twitch
Serves to scratch
An unconscious itch
And sketches out a future
In blood and moving skin.

Grinding axles muscles spin
Whirling under skin
Tight rub red blood raw
Rubber-booted scoundrel cells
Pull their weight
Pull church bells
In your abdomen again
And you coldly lurch
Against a wet wall when you recall
The night before.

And everyone you’ve met has changed you
with a flick of their head or their wrist.
And you turn your head again in the blind
alley to hear the far-off crash of hooves as you lie
in the gutter pondering your next move.