Wednesday

Another day of fresh cigarette burns,

not failing to hit the side of a barn

but falling far short of a neat bull’s-eye.

Not quite seeing the wood for the balsa,

knowing the great hereafter for elsewhere.

Athlete’s foot, Achilles’ heel, mouth ulcer,

one for the stomach, two for the money.

Nothing to see here.  Give me a minute.

At the slow end of a forty day fast

unpeel the digits from your onion fist

and mask yourself with the pocked palm’s odour,

the musk and slip of six weeks’ work, either

mustard gas and ether or your man’s flesh

flash-fried, seasoned, laid out, sprinkled with ash.