I scan the crowd
the heat of its passing,
the trigonometry of its structure
and the sense of destiny in its eyes
Bits of it break away
and speak to me
Hello, mate!
Everything OK?
Lovely day
Somewhere deep in there
are slices of anger
fingers of fear
but I do not see them
I sit in the heat of the sun
and no-one wears a mask
no-one carries a gun
or looks too sharp,
too close
The crowd goes in and out of shops
heads for another street
finds the cathedral on its phone
looks for somewhere to eat
When the sun goes down
it splits into groups
with rough edges
finds somewhere else to play
makes irregular shapes in its head
Sometimes it gets hurt:
sometimes it dies,
but not here, not now
not from where
I’m sitting