Yet who would have thought the old man

to have had so much blood in him?
Hell is murky

Don’t look and check behind you

Eurydice is lurking

She’s following you out
Forget

Wash your hands in grey water

The sticky feeling lingers

This soap — there’s something wrong

The more you clean your fingers

The dirtier they become
Eurydice

Limping like a night-terror

Unexamined and undiagnosed

Unwashed and undead —

Unwatched, but not un-nosed
Europe is afraid of waking up

And finding a horse’s head

The size and shape of Africa

Lying in its bed
Hell’s memory is murky

In its shadows something gropes

You told them they were dirty

Then you made them into soap