Friday, 25 May 2012

One Afternoon

Each window is what you make of it.
This one, for instance, wears gelatinous blobs
glued to the glass – the horripilation of transparent thousands.

Wind whips along the skin of the building
a shimmer of sound, pockets of explosions

the fire-escape coils in black z’s…

In the street, a man in khaki
has a hard time of it trying
to light his cigarette,

the ghost-wail of a siren getting
ever closer.

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