November 18, 2007

By midwinter
the darkness glitters
in the streets of the centre –
and the shops – are divided up
by bright plateaus of black slabs
stretching oily.

By midwinter
the streets are sluiced –
and sheened and licked by rain.
it’s pitch by four and water pours
with steady determination –
up from where the weather starts
and stars are hung behind pollution –

by midwinter
it’s light that makes the movement –
electric shards clattering out
melting yellow, washing white,
lit from roofs and streaking fine –
the paving stones are usually blind, but –

by mid winter
they run in bands of
rippling sky – they’re ruby pools
of midnight sight, sari mirrors
winking time – and they can see the sky.
The paving stones can see the sky.
They can see it arching wide –

they can see it falling down,
and they can see
everything that’s in the space
between it’s dome
and where they lying –
looking out.

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