One Inch
of Emotion, One Inch
of Ash, I read, in fiery letters, on a skin-
tight T-shirt
passing, a little too close, at rush hour, under the soaring stanchions
of Hungerford Bridge. Some
reflex that verged
on a shiver
set me thinking of Elias
Canetti, and how he claimed that we hate
to be touched, however
gently, in a slow-moving crowd, and so
apologize profusely when we brush
against a stranger. Looming

looming up though
the haze, Charing Cross, its maw
agape, its tentacles twitching
and probing. A busker, cross-
legged, hunched beneath the balustrade, was merrily tooting “The Bard
of Armagh” into a child’s
pink, see-through recorder—occasionally
plucking it from his lips