|Oct/Nov 2008 Poetry|
Great Eastern Street, London
Tube trains, chopped in thirds, perched on a building
An old warehouse carved in
A dog wastes through the street,
chased by a couple in drag.
filthing revolutions, scenes from Taxi
Driver—rainspray these trains,
Sentinels, they watch over this dead road,
facing the calm whiskey in the hands of a
man without age.
Face like a skinned lizard, the shock of a new
century blazoned on his tongue.
Swansong, Mile End
Pigeons on a tiled roof.
Foreground—bus stop shines in the rain.
Swans—patches of cloud—
float long Regent's Canal, its
skin, moving fish scales.
Shirt of sky opens.
Hair of stars sprout.
Plastic bags crackle like
pellets of rain in a tin can, like fire
bled on wood.
A southbound train lunges over a
The night is radioactive.
The two swans screech their song of love,
shake their manes, become
proud as horses.