The Flats
Above ringing passages
wind mutters and whimpers
up flights of stairs, pitched in gloom,
wedged with shadows,
where dust descends
a scutter of papers mouse,
muddy feathers rot,
and the purpled lump of a decaying squab,
beak still gawped,
serves pulsing gentles that unravel
its brief web of life.
Seams of night smeared
by the pallor of stars.
Shapes in the car park merge,
coagulate to thicker dark,
tear comfort from each other’s arms,
more tangled than forget,
as a night bird sings
to their flutes of subdued laughter
and the snorts of lust
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