10/07/2000

Slow cold heats; in the gap

before I realise come fresh faces

framed by scarves and hats,

bits of building, rubbish…

My face enjoys the clever comfort

of a smack. I should be tired,

my heavy boots should tell by now;

but I course on.

I hate this town,

hate to move around

in its neon jerks,

keeping me always new, warding off

the contact that kills.

Step by step I breathe it in,

close in on the blackening.