I find myself opening the door
to The Disaster Shop. Inside,
there are disasters everywhere,
and dust, and concrete, and a ceiling
which collapses every now and then.
I trip over the carpet, land,
if that’s the right word, on my knees,
and ask to see the manager.
His hair is on fire, his clothes ash,
his words a yoking of the mismatched.
‘Wonderful bombs. Beautiful hate,’
he signs with opposable digits.
‘Speaking in thumbs,’ he signs. ‘Like speaking
in tongues, but somewhat less salacious.
Gorgeously dead. Gifted despair.’
Laden with thoughts of mute disaster,
I leave the shop by the wrong door,
quietly. The ceiling collapses.