8
We walked the earliest edge of Sunday, winter dark; streets lined up with standstill cars,
silver, grey, and black, and white; while the ever-distant sun, then further still, was slowly
breaking into shining. The town was quiet, gleaming; the rows of tenements - awash with sky.
And we rarely chanced upon a person, save the stocking-wrapped, shadows without bodies,
and that nude and mouthless one. We turned into a narrow lane past the power station,
the mute red lights of chimneys looking down at us. We reached the concrete halfpipe
of the dried-out canalside. And listened out for it. To disappear.
For that.
