I am not afraid as I descend,
 step by step, leaving behind the salt wind
 blowing up the corrugated river,

 the damp city streets, their sodium glare
 of rush-hour headlights pitted with pearls of rain;
 for my eyes still reflect the half remembered moon.

 Already your face recedes beneath the station clock,
 a damp smudge among the shadows
 mirrored in the train's wet glass,

 will you forget me? Steel tracks lead you out
 past cranes and crematoria,
 boat yards and bike sheds, ruby shards

 of roman glass and wolf-bone mummified in mud,
 the rows of curtained windows like eyelids
 heavy with sleep, to the city's green edge.

 Now I stop my ears with wax, hold fast
 the memory of the song you once whispered in my ear.
 Its echoes tangle like briars in my thick hair.

 You turned to look.
 Second fly past like birds.
 My hands grow cold. I am ice and cloud.

 This path unravels.
 Deep in hidden rooms filled with dust
 and sour night-breath the lost city is sleeping.

 Above the hurt sky is weeping,
 soaked nightingales have ceased to sing.
 Dusk has come early. I am drowning in blue.

 I dream of a green garden
 where the sun feathers my face
 like your once eager kiss.

 Soon, soon I will climb
 from this blackened earth
 into the diffident light.