we are on par with thunder.

The clouds are switched to reverse,

hoovering steam from the craniums

of CEOs. They’re holding shit together

just beneath the spires of sky-scrapers,

channelling gold-fever, sucking lifts

up shafts with every morning coffee-

run. And then where does it go?

Get scrambled by the flurry of bats

above the bridge?  Shoot rocks

down from the solar system? Listen,

I’m not trying to tell you anything

you don’t already know. I saw you

watch that woman try to push back

the bones round her eyes, and we’ve

all been caught in the tiny electrical

storms of kitchenette etiquette wars.

There must be more than two million

people stashed behind those windows:

wired up, plugged in and terrified

of their own numerical inventions.

Zoom out and you’ll see the same red pop up

everywhere, lacing flags to lights to trees

that just won’t let go of their leaves,

strapping the city in place, so nothing

kicks round the universe when the earth

tips at the end of the day. What we might

lose: decimals culled from rounding down,

ideas cut loose from interrupted

conversations, your Disnified

musical future, blasted to bits

and shuddering, dehydrated,

in the air conditioning vent,

about

             to lose

                           its grip.