When the supplies ran out we turned against the environment that bred us. When everything stopped we took the furniture inside: bollards and all. We lived in the rubble of the big ideas,
All the clues were in place: I felt the constant in/out flow. We heard of a spate of logos, unmanned desks, gyratory reworked into an accident waiting to happen; the smell of shellfish
We moved through the place like ghosts, really, wearing oversized coats, the petrified stares of stuffed mammals as masks. We crept backstage, rearranged the things we thought
At the dead centre of a dream where X marks the spot the light switched off, or would have; at the end of the garden where the wild badger stirs in his sett and the alley, damp with fox, hexed
I sunk a borehole deep into the city. A rolled-up wedge of cardboard inserted in the ear. A face appears at the window, needing something from the morning, conversation maybe