. . .
The street so concrete opposite
Unfolds pin-sharp

So clear

Where peeled back layers pocket the disquiet.

Then there’s me, somewhere in between,
A conduit
Or junction box
Not fussy what plugs in.

The city’s concrete marches out of step
Stubborn squares cut shapes

Lost image, lost scents
Of sun-soaked ethanol
The chewed stewed air and
Vapid flavours stirring
Tepidly the skin

The restless rousing
Flowing endlessly
And endlessly
In endless