It seems like London here today the air
is murk edges are gray as the Professor
smuggles a bomb beneath a threadbare macintosh,
sky tumbling around like dirty wash.
Wherever you are, you aren't here today.
Absent as a pendulum this way, that way
swings in an empty cage while
some folk keep faring forth on arduous pilgrimage--
before the heavy snows bury their sorrow
& burden of nightfall settles on the year
& the tattered tattooed body here below
recedes in white lime a phosphorous glare
& the star in the milk turns black yes right here
Henry Gould | Island Road 28
Contents | Mudlark No. 6