Image by Fran Lock
By Fran Lock
u are the most north. the smooth,
unmotivated night, where it rolls
over us. poor houses, quarantined
inside of want. unset resin, yellow
rain. has raked the river open. dogs.
foxes. teens. muddily rut behind
bins. busstop, bikeshed, shitshow,
deluge. the pageant and the barrage
of it. winter. ferries its lethargy into
the terminus. a colony of overcoats.
heading home. under the dusty drag-
net of the sky. u are in the back bar,
handing out the damp’ners. clap-
board, clothesline, baize, and chalk.
yr voice. u said: the future is full,
go home. a hacking cough. chest
full of medley. three sheets to fogey.
sneer at the kiddiewinks, apple-
cheeked beneath the sanitised
thatch of a fringe.
