Hard as an empty factory, a sea of glass
eaves brown with rust and first rain
squares of light oblongate through broken panes
as the day creeps, almost a church service
with the soft thrashing of pigeon wings,
shadows across blackened brick
as an oil moon creeps over a battered roof
and a grey steel door bangs an obscure tact
with the first cold green starting, newspapers
and plastic bags flattering like shot birds
encoded by grease, a naked lightbulb swings over
an empty chair, the evening breeze failing
there is little hope here, nothing too much to save,
just the idle gathering of soot and distant traffic.
i agree with other comments. now i'll look at another. t.f.s. bri
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoy your usage of words here, and in your work in general. there are layers of images to explore in this piece.