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 month
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