On the Site of the Old YMCA

By | 1 August 2015

Like a bullfinch, after his cadenza, you stick your head out, to the open air
today the trailing straggling train of vowels
I like the undertows of contrabass before the sun works the crowds
in coats, in harness, the single moving into the multitude
fading signs of yesterday’s wards, asylums
along the up-down traffic of clatterring trams of gestures
You note the way a person ambles
but here, following my gaze, a youth, rising from a grey mass
simply steps in, crossing the door, into the foyer
like the first day of this city when one arrived
the City Road below shot through the ribcages
of a half-finished foundation
a whale of a construct wading in a gigantic open cut of silt and mud
in their helmets, ropes and suspensions, three workers quietly painted out the rust
from the rust-attacked concrete walls
the November sky shouted Vortex!
to the busy wild-west skinheads flitting tapping their platform shoes on the steps, along
the blazing doorways
In a room as if you’d owned, first sin of many, a full gulp of air on your untrained palate.

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