the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.



Bristling with light bones
they lost themselves
on streets familiar
in that strange
spirally sort of way,
a city wrapping itself
around a focal point
a centre
something that draws
all of the buildings
together into one
encompassing entity
designated a city
on ledgers somewhere
and in the occupants

“The Blade”

The blade reaches up
above the rooftops
to dawdle beneath
the clouds and smog
of a vast cityscape.

It hangs above my life
every life by a thread
of thinly woven white
little lies and half-truths
that mill us all to sleep.

Every now and then
I see the people stop
and glance at the blade
with renewed wonder
then start to carry on.

The same people stop
walking to question why
they wander weary streets
beneath the blood-bound
blade; then they forget.