And now, for the human interest story,

a quarter past breeze and apple-size dust

of blossom, latticed fragments

tendrils, sheathed in birch sleeve

closed door economy,

my new bonfire of vanity,

a cement wall sloping cliff-face

and edge-hedge shed three-facing

attacking west-side with phlegm of

dragonfly and sword of spider

the mirror of an engine and a rotor

and a ...

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Called you at midnight

you answered with no little reluctance

through the rusted ribcage of totalled phonebox,

saw the rusted renown of my smashed reason.

After one minute the receiver fades to fuzz,

my fists hammer walls that are not there,

I zip, buckle, put collar up, out

in space now walking and with each step,

the ground sinks a little further...

sinks a little...

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