Junction


I come from a place of cold fact. It’s in the architecture, The movement of buses,


It’s obviously repeated On every button I press. The curbs have it.


As do the trees. Men have it, So do the shop fronts.


The money I seek has it, This cold fact.


Untitled


Four walls, a water cell, a Victorian prison Above, a church, a vagrant’s bed, no mirrors.


Inside, the view of the four walls, time hated and Reeking, flooded with filth and breaking Will to stop.


Darkness crouches beneath the sill and waits To steal in, to ruin sleep, to press A mad confused face close to your own, Grinning, grinning.


SIMON MORGAN


8


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