Yesterday reading my life
in the leaves on which
the thrown-out baby
landed

and my future in salts
left on terraced towels
when the bath water
evaporated

I knew to go
unmoneyed but showered
to the closing Sunday
of the art show.

Unable when pressed to say
whether the skinned-rabbit-
in-tub-of-blood photograph
or the snack bar

across the aisle where eaters
washed down sausages with beer
and machine coffee
was worse

I turned the corner
embracing every third passer-by
impartially until security
intervened.