Twilight paints this strip of The Smoke
to slumber. Slow, separate, in the gathering light,
Earth closing the space between them,
her last word still looping, she peels a kiss from lolling lips
whilst a dredger ship tows past to the Dogs.
She gulls and swoops her prey and the crawling
kerbs of engines queue, spitting their back-tracks
through ward-like streets while the full-fat stop
in the sky steals a glance to the Gherkin’s glimmer
and the lusty Dome who echo renaissance cries.
His shirt side-pulled, her rosy palm creams
whipped egg-white and eggplant flesh, a green belt
silent unhinged release to blow from the city’s cheeks.
Blind steel screeches at the station of the Cross
and the myopic Eye spins its empty round
losing by inches the lovers’ thrall and thrash.
A woman passes, averting her senses,
pulling her dog from the scent
fanning from her offered-high posy
while she hoods, in her mouth, his silks and spices
and shields him from beastly intent.
He loves me, he loves me not –
Tubes beat and drum beneath the verge.
Violet neons surge and bend from the stars away;
street-lights in disharmonic disarray.
The garden swells for its disciple,
the smell of earth-worm rings in her nose
pulling her tethered head to his on the turf,
their mouths in rounds, faint beat of hearts,
flesh mole-mounds gasp and suckle.
Warm moans, venerate decay,
she clasps the night to the day.