I
A dismal courtyard, stacks of empty crates.
A pot of rosemary that no one tends.
It lights a cigarette, then hesitates.
Each indecision subtly countermands

A former person's inchoate decree.
A faded carpet slung across a rail
Has done with flying. Only this is free –
The stony pigeon too resigned to fail.

Obeying gravity it pecks for crumbs,
With earthbound feathers chiselled out of slate;
Its eyes as dead as diamonds do not blink.

The real is cold as metal. Patience numbs.
The long awaited invitation's late.
It is too late to be myself, I think.

II
The cleaning-woman grumbles at her tasks.
The mop would like to wash her dirty hair.
Imperfect aspects – constant action masks
Steps' echolalia on the soapy stair.

Some body shoulders sacks of coal or spuds
Towards an attic flat that isn't there,
And slips, on loop, upon the tepid suds.
The body corporate is doctrinaire:

All loft conversions must be pre-approved.
The building shunts, we shiver in arrears.
Behind each door, the same old couple fights.

The record spins, until, too deeply grooved
To skip, it plays the music of the spheres.
Last leaves let go, and 'fall towards the heights'.

III
Blear morning steams above the garden plots,
Where ravens make their liminal patrols.
Inveterately venal, rueful sots
Implore their cowed and too-forgiving souls

For one more chance to change. Their bargain oaths
Contribute to the all-pervading fug
Of soot and smoke that belches from the stoves.
A stoic widow beats a Persian rug

With ponderous intent, and syncopates
The sluggish heartbeat of the frozen earth.
The hooligans kneel down for bat and chain,

On empty ovals in the grim estates.
Like razor-wire graffiti binds their turf.
A freight train, braking, screeches in the rain.

IV
Occulted coal-trains, anaesthetic fog.
You startle from a moment of repose.
Hope is as faithful as a mongrel dog
That sniffs the future with pathetic nose.

Across the tracks, the wind in Brochów squalls.
The jingling, nomad caravan of stars
Departs each night for hissing shower stalls.
The wheat of concord rots among the tares.

From out beyond the frosted silhouettes
Of trees, and fields where eerie orange blooms
Of lamps unfold, at pensive intervals

(While whispers struggle in the lacy nets
Of curtains veiling overheated rooms)
Rings out the envoi of expansive bells.

VI
The empty exergue on the tarnished sun
Is worn still barer by a skinflint breeze
That strokes the tender of oblivion.
All month the grinding Gutenberg of trees

Churned out a threadbare, clandestine gazette
Only the exiles read. The warehouse groans
Under the weight of crumbling samizdat.
In conchae of abandoned telephones

Grey Baltic tides implore an absent voice.
Dead letters choke the deadpan letterbox.
The season serves dry bread and bitter herbs

But garnished with the condiments of choice.
Mist-censers veil the naked paradox.
Crows feast on apples' decomposing orbs.