Inner City Duende
Now she is clockwork in the bus lanes,
a bottled-up tock of sorrow.
All her straight lines are strung
through a maze of stuttering street lamps.
A slow build in the beer barrels
to this, the banshee hour
louder than trains
the rhythms of her misery
running on iron rods down
into the hot bright
hells of Angel, Euston,
The city swallows her,
binds her in Tarmac,
trails pleasures behind her;
a constellation of fractured glass.
She weeps mascara.
Her eyes are ideograms, untranslatable,
as she slashes the brambling
arms of friends away.
And then she is dancing
to the dark sounds of her sorrow,
the city's breath rising through her
as she ripples, divided, multiplied,
like a water-bound moon slipping
through shop windows,
as street neon carves her tears
into the lights of cars.