buildings rise
like flowerpots
cracking in long-
emptied gardens
at the neat backs
of houses, long-
empty / for sale:
cranes, thistles swaying
between them, rising
past cobbles and wagging
their spiky blue stems,
their long spiky
shoulders. making some colour
and breaking down old
concrete slabs. I walk
down d'olier street, I walk
to the quayside, and the city
just falls into water. a beach
in a january, a cold-
blown sand;
short cliffs. grassy
roots. slipping roads.