Inner City Duende

by Adam Horovitz


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,

Camden Town.

 

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.

 

© Adam Horovitz