history has no future   it’s more testament than tenacity  

more tenement than transience

an illusion of Earth standing on its head  

like the old codger who collects  

in the underpass connecting   

and the late cars squawking overhead

and what of the rusty cup and the mangy dog?

obligatory for a man who fights for poems by firelight

and she

never once reincarnated  

she who smells of forgetfulness and TV dinners

she who carries the cart to the hypermart for dented cans and cold cream  

and he  

he with the scar under his left eye  

the crew-cut and the crescent and teardrop tattoo  

always crying to the moon  

always ready to die

and on the way home to the other side  

where beer was once served lukewarm

she    another she   

carries the touch of men’s hair and fingers

filaments of inbreeding breathing through layers and skins

reeking of old men’s fables  

of survivors and war heroes

and though their ghosts have vanished

shadows still drag behind like bats

transmuting along the corridors

swooping above flagpoles

lining the concourse

with their indelible silence