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No garden here. He clambers in the flowing umbrella
Blood rowing through an unnamed passage-way
Through first signs of dawn; the shifting images of a fortune teller,
The man with his hands in his pockets is going astray
And thinks he sees a cross in the scorched reflection
The paint slashes of peach, and the skies mute erection
Some make-believe woman at the zebra crossing
She made him aware his morning would come to nothing,
But to soar above the hive of threatening shapes
And into the potato field where the sun is falling,
To be back in the greenhouse with some old cassette tapes
Is to escape the laceration of the cities maw;
That vast obstruction of nailed windows,
The tango of street-lights on his way to work.