Rose ceiling turns out
the smallest keep
how those who own property
might despise their own possessions,
xylophones or thrown out
a first floor window
between us the coming freedoms
dead body to speak
openly without lithium choked
backcourts of tenement, box
bowls light from mirrors
rooms brighter even now
in black damp twitch
zennor oolong scratches or
my dolmens of efficiency saving
mullion to mullion touches both sides
window ails whatever southward
lugwormed your hearts heart of proxies
done dark mica air or eyes or
pink feldspars clear quartz time
half-meant acid nuance choiceless
in-dangling in-work poverty
outexit buddleia status: hedonium
snapping no literary ambition
patrons vermiculate flesh coloured
out of bounds people
I waywend plainsong
careered murmurings
the body of sadism defining
class procreation serried
slow dead from here to Central Station
