London
There is a monolithic loneliness
In the stillness and flow
Of these lights and faces
Which will erase everything we know
If we try to touch it.
Fulfilment becomes obscene:
A career plan and one for the road,
A cheeky fag though you've given up,
A veil over your face in some
Discreet hotel, squealing.
All we can do is love -
Love the blue pinpricks of light,
And the ice in our veins,
The shadowed hour in a lover’s arms
Before the morning claims us.
