or work. This is work, recording details
in the after-echo where things stare.
Years away, I see a spot like blood
turn inky-black. It gleams as if fresh-leaked
into the early light from Satan's pen.

Dead on time, the London train pulls in.
It stops. But there's no room for us. The dead
in stained commuter clothes stand tightly packed
against the doors. The ink I use turns red.
It floods the platform and the railway bed.