Day 37 (Holy Saturday)

In Princes Street, the monument is pinned into the park,
a Hibernian gothic in miniature. Sandstone skin of the
building traps the fine particulate carbon. I seek shelter.
I balance the hotel’s calcified taps until they run the
temperature of blood. The city signature makes soap grey
in my palms. Why do we need a wee excuse for a dram,
say the cold that puckers skin like sushi. I know where
that ends for a defective like me. In the doorway where
the man with cheeks shiny as clingfilm drinks Red Biddy
directly from the plastic bottle.