City

 

City

This is the city.
This is the station.
This is the torn bird.
This is the wide years.
This is the national flag.
This is the blood of terror.
This is the deafening centre.
This is the coat on the hook.
This is the ash beat boardwalk.
This is the metro bullet to nowhere.
This is the dream’s malleable scripture.
This is the man strung out and braying.
This is the black fig agape on the paving.
This is the rope and the grip for dear life.
This is the vertigo pulse of the enlightenment.
This is the percolation of a great body of cells.
This is the failed appliance unfurling from a socket.
This is the labyrinth of a man’s stomach of thought.
This is the raw lighthouse beaten by a stammer of lost seas.

Leminscate, Chris Viner