Touch the city.
When its interiors occupy the space where your body was,
twisted tendons of its deep-lit tunnels and sick night-time cafés,
sulphur lights pulsing behind scaffold eyes.
Train’s bodies ice the frames of this steel picture,
rails are the silver stitches in this dark smouldering cloak of night.
Dragons worm within the walls of cables deeply,
and are the cables and great relays of ancient bakelite switches.
Blades of something metal flicking restless,
and a hundred miles above in the quiet pool of a garden’s dark hum,
a cat of hidden wisdoms flashes her tail ‘swish…swish…’ in time.
There are tales to be told of the deep,
myths in the reeds of the broken and humming quarries.
I can’t explain but I was told there are shafts of sunlight that penetrate the sub-terrain,
so standing in the water breathing quietly,
whilst the circulating rivers make papery echos around your feet,
you may watch this penetration of bright from above the surface and see ghosts of the world hunt;
blinking briefly and pale across the light.
A shaft of feathery movement,
one pillar of light for so many pillars of dark,
in the tunnels of a lost city that stretches up to touch the clouds.