Campo San Lorenzo





Some collections sit uncomfortably at the edge of town. Stray animals, strip clubs, invalids.
When something repressed is annexed beside the accepted,
or comes to light, awkwardly formed or lurid,

a cat sneezes.
A husband watches a stripper.
Ruins are nailed shut; brought closer to a comprehensible stasis.
Closed doors are social blinkers.
Eyes boarded-up;
ragwort and knotweed between the paving.

The drains smell but nobody notices.
Plugholes are feared.
Every night offers a transition. The dead and the sleeping swap places.
Buildings assume dimensions
to trap us
in mouse-hole openings,
or loom
all over the darkness.