looks like a casino sun

flowering in the night, full

of calibrated science,flashing

coloured lights and a Newton’s

disc that refuses to stop

spinning until the last pollen

of weight left by that moth

of a man before me is blown

away by the wind from the train

that passes. After a throated

clang it spat out a cut cookie-

coloured card on which is

written your lucky number

and a hooking line about fate

in proportion to your weight

in the world.