Blue light in a high window.
Shadow leaps, train darkens past.
Grey cat on a glass spiked wall,
pads between the knives.
Frank dreams of breakfast in a nursery,
he snores in a chain-pub bin.
He wears a Mickey Mouse watch
above credential scars.
Kebab shop pulls down shutters.
A deformed leg of meat stops turning.
Someone whistles in the blank passage
between government buildings.
There is dirt under her fingernails.
They crawl over a piece of spicy dead chicken.
They suck up the juices with their many faces.
A bicycle without lights mounts the pavement.
Hands move on clocks beside closed eyes.
The house is empty now.
It is gutted of necessary objects.
They who lived there
no longer live anywhere.
And I am no one to them.
And no one are they
to me, but scattered
in body, and in mind.
