I lack the muse's command of cadences and tones,
Sometimes words tumble from my mouth like grain,
At other times words need to be pulled like teeth.

When I sit down by the Manchester Ship canal,
On a cold grey December day,
I weep because of the curse I carry,
The curse of a glint of a light from Elysium
Or Zion or heaven-knows-what-you-will.

I cannot sing the songs of the Lord,
But if I ever forget to sing of the dead
May I be silenced forever. Instead,
Let my highest joy be for a little boy
Who left me, starkly, here, alone.

If I knew that Babylon or Satan or man
Had arranged this, I would seek revenge.
But, my friend, knives and bullets and bombs
Are of little use against viruses or fate or God. .

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