We no longer believe in the savagery
of history, though the past
still has a way of dictating which pew
and what faith
we stumble into. So we turn away
from the loaded guns
of Emley Moor and Tixall Road
like ghosts in a shooting gallery.
Not so much, out of time, as out of options.
As we cancel friends.
And put the blockers on those we love.
Now breaking bread gives way
to shoot and run, in the timeless duel
between selective memory
and letting go.