just give me a wedge to pin my body tight,
a rail to grab and stop the body-sway,
a boot to foot this travel into night
and kick the arid emptiness of day.
The labour’s dead and let it rot this one
within that cellophanic engine-room,
the soul bleeding out on meetings spun
at wipe-clean desks, in grey partitioned gloom;
I have a spine that fights its craggy husk
and knees that grate through cartilage on grit,
the train a sweat unfinished into dusk,
departing from the refuse, crap and spit.