Metal: that silver grey stuff with flecks of

white locked inside like a sweet from a

far flung future. It’s corroded, slightly,

struggling with the gas in the air and the

acid rain, no doubt. It’s scrawled upon

in thin black excited lines that play out

an act or two within inches. Life is

ground so tightly around it; like coffee

beans that squirm away from blades that

end them. The hieroglyphs of a tired age

and untrained brain run like lines over

latitude and longitude; arbritary

designations of piety. They cut us apart.

The chain link fence squeaks when the

wind follows a falling sun and I’m

snapped back, shivering in a bus queue.



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