We work with the spaces
The back is quiet, the front door ajar
On the street I see a queue
Of monks on skateboards
And hear bells
While frying onions
We cut and thrust
Road-mending en-masse
I hear a samurai giggling fit
So modest but shrill
And feel metal
Stretch the fabric
In my dream I dream
I’m dreaming
Out between the starlight
I see trains shuffle sleepy
By the pale green radiator pipes
It’s as indispensable as the bread
I taste in a Balkan high rise
Or the extension cable I hug tightly
Picturing something else again
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