Time seems to be toxic. Or the times

perhaps. The sky’s no longer good for us

and staying warm and staying clothed are crimes

we’re born to. And of course the obvious

reverse applies. We’re no good for the sky

and our being born at all’s a sort of threat

to everything. The world’s allergic. My

presence and yours, my friends, are dead set

dangerous miracles. And we are death

to one another. Dare a touch of colour

and here’s a knee to put an end to breath,

a living blue one-sided fatal collar.

The times are toxic. Time’s nine parts despair

and one part anger. Time is the stopped air.