Chris Major
Surface Tension
Slowly the tributes come.
First in dribs and drabs,
then a steady stream;
until finally a rush forms
a clot of colour outside
the dirty grey house.
Later, with the bottom
torn from the street’s world,
people pick at the flower scab,
revealing (despite tremendous pain)
no wound or scar,
just a surface,
almost calm,
almost normal,
across which bruises
loom like iceberg tips.