I want to find myself lost in crowds
with you once more, feel our fingertips
ferncurl, neat as new maps, unfurl down
platforms, clasped in the tube’s hot crush, slip
streets’ silver riot, bodies sing, spilling
like warm beer, summer doorways slopping
cheers, or flurry, as snowflakes flock chill
huddles, humming, bus-lit, and us stopping

in the Tate’s cool halls, to see McQueen’s
Year 3, motes floating, the photos stacked,
class on class of kids, a uniformed sweep,
sublime and sad as graves, grey and racked
to vanishing. The ranked mass in your eyes
teared to tangled truth. “All those little lives.”