Tiles
Black mathematical tiles
have me thinking of riled
calculations along Lewes
High Street [those beer &
shot nights of pub crawls]
of fug – of diesel clouds &
tart breaths over-shared –
Any unpolished gloss will
appear unloved [veneers
now untouched’ll dull] –
histories of alignments &
affixed to an uneven face –
restated a thousand-plus
times [by hands & eyes at
vertical bodies] – Under it
a structure will fall apart –
what is left is a dishonest
array – an ailing visage in
a gone mirror – that gloss
rubs off under every error