Poetry

In the Rain

urbem venalem et mature perituram, si emptorem invenerit

 

The rain had come and washed them out into the gutters

gurgling their trade. ‘Cigarette?’ I shook my head.

‘Do you want business?’ they said.

 

There are ossuaries in our great city, of the dead

there are no memories only heat. Ash and bone

white ends and yellowed nicotine collect.

The waiters sloshed the night into the street.

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