A stone, a deadly bullet, flashed
from the wheel of a lorry
into the visor of my helmet,
driving it hard onto my nose.
Speeding to Tipperary on motorbike;
it would have smashed my face;
the bike, careering, would have dragged
my body; legs and arms breaking
in impossible angles,
jacket ribboning, a grotesque melange
of cloth and blood-sopped flesh.
By that thickness or the grace of the Gods,
I am the Michael I take for granted;
by such margins, we presume.
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