There’s nothing here that’s left to say.
The street sides reek of other worlds.
An emptiness envelops us:
The bars are full, the hilltops dark.
There’s space between the cranes and stars:
A pile of other people’s trades,
So high it greets the tourist jets
With soulful songs of loss and regret.
The shops are full, the eyes are down.
I’ll walk a slightly longer route.
I don’t – and never will – belong.
I left and didn’t add a word.
The sun’s the same: it lights the glass
Of windows up The Falls to Whiterock.