I didn't make it back last night. It's first thing
as me and low-hung packs of clouds march hard, aligned,
past the greying people mugging misery for pennies;
the bloodless wet wanderers,
ones who I wonder if they ever eat
who no one wants to be.
Gotta get the city to open her legs, though maybe
not these streets; bejewelled with sinus oysters
and jellyfish-shape piss stains,
and (like my exes in me), violent reminders of ghosts
posing as splatter shadows from long-gone vomit
rain-washed away on pavements.