Dusky Ink
A little heater with its electric glow:
it sits in the shadow, it means home.
Back at my flat; top slot of the lift.
Dusty designs in a ramshackle drift.
There’s no wine, just cheap cigarettes.
Smoke makes ghosts cos I can’t forget.
Cans might clink if I drink as I think.
A moon-edged sky; the window’s brink.
Skeleton towers on her diesel breeze.
The city’s sea shifts softly, uneasily.
The sun inscribes with a dusky ink,
so sirens rise high as he sadly sinks.
Ben Preston 