Epigraphic poem: A Plague on All Your Houses
by Philip Quinlan
No need to ask, ‘Which village is it?’
We, like the flea, have made our visit—
unbusy in unruly sun,
remembering, like everyone:
the unleft ones, the dear demised,
how every house was cursed by loss—
the house we stayed in too, of course.
Perhaps our stay was ill-advised?
Once bitten, should we catch, then drop,
will human voices wake us up?
Or will we drown in sentiment
—our own insidious intent?