Written by Stuart Rushworth
The lights take off into the cold
Like fired glass turning amongst tower lights miles off
In the icy city.
Behind us the poor hills, full of shape and nothing more
To divide the stars. The brilliance of the land. Then
Roads. A valley full of roads
And industries and chimneys like like pounced cats
Runs of wagons and cars.
Which way to the fayre?
The previous evening she had read no books, expressed
Herself no more than usual for the time of the week.
She had watched the news, the region’s weather. Maybe
Looked out of one of the back windows when the light
Was off. No particular significance in what she saw – no
Obvious change in her mood when she had returned to the
Light.
We do not remember fully
The turns we made
Shone into the mouths of alleys.
We do not remember fully. The roots
Of Gothic hotels built half of shadow like exhumed men.
Main thoroughfares. A museum’s giant pillars.
Vagrants like buffalo
And street-names sometimes high above.
Which way to the fayre?
This man is a compass
His hands are sea-plants
Loose in currents he no longer has strength for.
His hands are blisters
His skin is the pavement and the cold surrounds him.
Look around: although we are moving
There are oblique angles
Where the student in her nightie and slippers
Raises her arms like wings under her shawl,
Welcomes the freezing figures of bystanders,
Banks’ headquarters, solicitors’ windows
Like epitaphs, traffic lights, department stores.
Look around
For here is a more dilated district;
Dark stockinged arches of soot and tangled sleep
The women turn like tall stray horses
Or the paintings of dreams.
Which way to the fayre?
They rise like ladles with coloured bulbs
Smoothly into the night sky
Bowed as if to make room for them.
Steel-floored booths. Squares of tents.
Neighbouring and eyesless empty mills
Up where the very cold
Holds the city in its constellations
Then down into the reek of food
Muddy shoes shifts
Of music and smiles. Eyes
Like torn birds.
Text © Stuart Rushworth
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