by Gerald Arthur Moore
This morning there are scars on the road.
Dark circular petrol bomb bruises
ringed with blue and yellow, like punches.
Exploding pipes, jacks and rusty nails.
“Nobody died today from Belfast confetti”-
words disappear like incense into the din:
“It was just ladies purses at twenty paces.”
But there are fragmentation marks on stones
and bones in Milltown Cemetery.