The city falls in bursts of light around me. I am falling too.
Life in the shape of cars float across the Kingston Bridge.
Inside each car, the drivers daydream. Hand on wheel,
foot on pedal, driving into the sky; faces calm as mannequins.
The bridge simply carries them. She is obedient and good.
South of the river, I walk the long road to the men and women
of swollen livers and burst hearts.
The alleyways threaten; estuaries of bin bags, middens,
rats eyes. The souls of the Clyde float up and down,
their cold bodies offer no answers.
The air roars with the spirit of a train sliding into the glass and girders
of Central Station. My eyes follow the train to its destination.
The station is no home to speak of. Its rooms are museums
of the future. The Clyde river is a coming together
of the Daer and Potrail waters. And tonight
the Clyde is smooth tar; eating the light, eating the light.