The glow of gutter puddles.
The mirror sheen of a sky
where forty thousand lights
reflect forty thousand lit windows.
Grass grows whiskers through
pavement cracks. Cars pass
like they’re swishing their capes.
A parade-ranks of streetlights,
on monstrous steel stalks,
with angled Mars-red bulbs
makes you think of Wells:
they are absolutely fuck-
ing about to start plaiting together and
striding the streets wailing ullah,
frying the chip-shop’s broad-lit
glass front, the yeast-stupefied
pub, with a focused energy beam
exactly the colour of the nighttime.