Cold ruffles and bed tossings,
in the rotting temporary prison,
stayed a week or a day,
quilted from loneliness
by Dickens; or a childhood souvenir.
Stepping into weedsprung alleys,
peopleless in the architectural trunks,
cobbled and lost in history:
the sounds of stories, meaningful and meaningless.
Staring, laced by the draped windows of empty streets,
into the faces of revellers,
a kind of liquid consequence dawns,
shadowed by pigeons herding, flocking.
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