30 / 180
30
and we cling to a fear
in order to overcome and carry on
with our bones and so much rubbish
to appear then to somebody else
in the evening, in the dark, at the end of an alley,
This, the dull horror of Mr. Anywhere
(and ask me whether I hate promises).
The small world is held together
by the scaffolding of transport timetables,
their connections and their routes
precise in their details, the omniscience
of satellite networks, of media:
it doesn’t need a catastrophe, it takes very little,
a small human error or even less
to unroll kilometres into metres
to bring back the ancient fury
of the submultiple in steps and seconds
(and ask me whether I hate promises).
Little is left of all that was built:
only the permanent building site, the style,
(I don’t mean the products, now only
flattened drink cans, single-dose sachets of ketchup,
outlive glacial erosion).
The sense of making is over,