The Hive

I have moved from a hole to a fucking hive.
"Shrugs,", she said, and for a moment it was all
Worth looking from afar.
That pale view of skin from three rows back ,
That view of the tangled gob of hair from three rows back;
Is it the same combed mass down there?
Is there freckling?
All that hardly matters now.
Nothing can be left behind as easily
As something you really need.
This time round, at least, the fingers are not involved.
There were not any shirts, as was said;
The world outside, however, was intent on vengeance.
Every single body that the eyes scanned were pink and blue.
As the empty cabs and fast trams went by,
the past whirled by too.
At the cusp of the subway sat a blind beggar.
And he had a pink and black pot for alms.
A gust of wind blew past and injured me,
And it took the pot with it.
if only winds could perform miracles, like clairvoyants!