November 3rd 2021
Carry On Carrion
The city’s people’s patterns looked like mortar.
I think we’re talking Wednesday, here.
The river’s water’s heaviness was looking like
a long grey sock, until it reached a deeper
water, and began to look different.
The coming crises wore their finest cloaks,
flashing a bit of ankle, the fonts of theatre
menus. Oooooooooooooooh, Matron,
I thought, and headlonged out the coffee-shop
to shelter inside the rain. What undid
me in the end, wet entering my espadrilles,
a clutch of skeletal piano chords dribbling
from windows, was someone somewhere sighing,
We get it, man, stuff’s like other stuff.