You grabbed my hand and we
fell into it like a daydream or a fever.
Blaise Bailey Finnegan III
We meet at the sign of the Ram, you
and I – back in the heart of the place.
Here you may cover the face with a
choice of shroud, cap, hood or veil.
This street is a book of pictures.
They walk, hard-hatted, fluorescent
like ghosts amongst us, breaking
the ground, reaching through root
and stone, sifting and lifting and
talking over lunch into phones.
The Ram leers – he is no lamb
and his disciples are no shepherds.
The Temple was sick and it may
be sick again. The City strains
against natural boundaries, rain
fills submerged courses, eruption
of the flood plain may yet destroy
utopias of low-rise residential zoning.
And out in the Blogosphere, the
lonely sound of inevitable uselessness.
Silicone chip; lava of London clay.
Wireless networking; salt in the machine.