Suddenly as the riot squad moved in it was raining exclamation marks, Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion. Itself ― an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire ... I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering, All the alleyways and side streets blocked with stops and colons.
I know this labyrinth so well — Balaklava, Raglan, Inkerman, Odessa Street — Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street. Dead end again. A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon face-shields. Walkie- talkies. What is My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going? A fusillade of question-marks.
From Collected Poems (2008), by kind permission of the author and The Gallery Press.
