1.
Sixteen names were daubed thickly
Over and again, in the stairwell, going quickly
Back before ‘89
Before the fall (of man? Of wall?)
Tagged when tagging
Was only first starting
To look less like names,
A mess of claims;
Ownership on brick-dust
And chippings from the war.
2.
The buildings here wear
Their insides-out,
Each year:
A ring.
In stencils,
Free-handed,
Meticulously painted:
A face – ‘How Long Is Now?’
3.
The tracks are much like other tracks
Here; London, Moscow – the in betweens,
And shadows even, of India
(I cannot help it).
But thorny briars cough their way
Tattoo-like
Up the side of the yellow skins
Glancing off of dancing men,
Bananas gripped in pointed fists,
Kisses on a sliding door
Still wet, and running
Up the arm of a man who holds
His pen like it is his birth-right.
And perhaps here,
In these past twenty years
It is.
