On York

if the streets are fear

and the sun is torment

and judgment

if the seconds are darts

and blades

separating your flesh

--then death does not come easy

and you never stride, singing

into the breach,

so--for the sake of releasing

who once saw the streets

with wonder

who once gloried in the light

you might go through

the sticky, laborious

process--

--of unpeeling your skin. you might

leave the--I--in rags

and go down screaming

weeping, as your pupils

consume you

you might go down in torment

hoping

--that you had released

it to the light