The sun a low-slung coin of salt
burning the cobalt blue to flame.
On smoke-smirred glass, fire assaults
a concrete henge; the sky reclaims
the vacant stars and extant trees,
as you, by train, pull in late.
The mind wants what it cannot see,
home is what we come to hate.
Feel the darkness of the evening,
hear water coursing quick as lime
through the building’s mouldering lair,
and ask the dusk for three small things:
a line of coke, endless drink - and time.
Time to forget ever living there.