
2.10pm
a.
surveyor tracks.
confused traffic.
road wrapped in robes of road.
slung together with a sash of steel. lights.
for pedestrians where they do not care.
to cross.
thirty-six traffic lights in fifty.
square metres.
dark.
underthebridgeweloseourbearings
theroadrumblesandswaysusoffcourse
none of theses are.
north.
a patch of wayward weed and wet soil. a splash of sun. shine on the other side.
people emerge. from dark pockets.
at the edges. gladiators from their dens.
car parks.
two pigeons. more. many. wary. one. none. a man. crosses. looking. there and there and there. before. he steps. he has the green man but that green man locked up in that box high up on his post he cannot see the world for looking. he cannot be trusted.
your guiding light.
dirty grey dusty red.
the ground eats itself up.
grows warty without.
a tree to hide its hurt.
the puff of cars hangs.
beneath the bridge.
a child’s breath.
on a tram window.
smog. spreads a little.
not far and.
slips away.
creeps slowly again.
out. spreads a little and.
slips away.
maps in zoos national parks and big cities. they all wear away in just that.
spot. someplace. where all things converge.
the. you are here. spot.
and we poke it to reaffirm what we already knew.
we poke it until that spot is.
gone.
now.
just.
a pale.
worn smudge.
where something used to be.
now.
we can’t work out what that was.
we can’t work out where we are.
we can’t see where to go.
this place is nothing. here.
a place where too many things converged. too many things lead to this.
a child’s breath. this place disappears.
bolts and pillars. studs and steel.
a little too far from the swirl of the river to be interesting.
a little too close to nothing to be noticed.
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