With the sunlight spinning through great emptiness
to the mulled puddled blood of ox tongue and calf’s
liver in the butcher’s window, the sawdust
floor and the mothers with children, who would notice
if one child watched another he didn’t know
and of a sudden grasped “He thinks he’s good”? —
each one the centre of a moral world. Would he clutch his mother?
The butcher whacks a lamb leg from its torso
and everywhere is the centre. In a sprightly
universe the stars race away from one another.
2 February 2001