Here's you after the fact, found by torchlight,
being-less, heaped, boned of all thought and sense.
The camera can barely look. Or maybe,
just maybe, you live. Here's you on the News,
shirtless, minus a limb, exiting smoke
to a backdrop of red melt, on to streets
paved with gilt, begging a junkie for help.
This poem will be in 'From Here to Here: Stories Inspired by London's Circle Line', published by Cyan Books next monthReuse content