Sixth floor waiting room, view
rabid traffic surges round the cloverleaf—seemed
a mild intersection enough
when I drove it.
To forget the losses, to undo.
You know someone has it worse than you,
someone you know.
I really do not feel obliged to make
accrue, corners weigh down, wrists raw, a way up is
rich that’s all.
Mums bloom among frost-burned leaves.
City detritus—in other words, never cease, just keep
following these fitful lights.
From the Underbook #1