Four Corners     Night in near the building, the windows are closed, A watchman stirs his hand under a streetlight. A storm of ash and human touch brushes by, an enormous movement of dust, breathed into a hollow, into a sack of brevity. The stairs are damp and the people frail. A dress is worn wrong on the collarbone, a tie knotted with a tired hand, its owner is icicle, a skeletel afterthought. They sleepstanding up, the streets store their shadows, bear footprints after dusk. Everyone is fading, spilling into a second world, it as if one had reached a portion of land that was wrought with wrong hands, a series of broken plows. A rumour of broken constellations, bone dry and with small aches Like those found round the temple, like those near the heart.

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This work is copyrighted by Shelagh Power Chopra.