The man on the corner repeats
at intervals down the street,
as though in a trick photographer’s
loop: hands on hips, in fob
pockets, ignoring the see-through dog
ghosting along the pub wall
behind him feeding on air,
on the ghost of a promise
of gristle and bone.
Dawn in the brewery yard
finds ice on the dung,
the drayhorse’s breath
steaming into the lens.
The barrels tumble chiming
into riverside cellars
and are sprung in a week;
the drayman’s further-off
judgement day promises
the bump and jolt of a cemetery
clearance and only then
the vile dust settled at last.
The dog and I fall into step.
Peer through his vitreous ribs
and watch the brickwork rewind,
decade on decade. Does he
want feeding? There aren’t
shadows enough to sate him.
Sharp against my ribs too,
the ghost of a torn-down future
pushes, prods, and will out.