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by Sophie Goodeve

Urban life rolls and the movement lifts hair.
The buildings are teeth on turning cogs.

I stepped out from the house.

Puddles chased me whilst I
quick-glanced through the traffic; a free-run
of colour and metal along penned-in markings.
The city guides my walk
like a guardian who knows best
"don't talk".

Shop signs strode in great lengths across buildings
their shined-up glory takes a bold look at the street.
Tessellating pavement, vertical lamppost and arrowed shop sign.
A mathematical infrastructure swamped with rain and people.
A bodice to hold in, or a frame in which to hide.
Each breath, chi, life swung in the cradle
an industrial cot.

Hot drills burn the pavement
the welded pieces could wear
tear out the bolts, melt under searing torches.
Colour the city in red sparks and
man-made didn't last.

Foot struck hard concrete.
A secure base for moving bodies
unlike the rock's foothold that asks:
"wait, breath here, find the next space."
On these grey lips I can move with speed.
Unquestioned and with no patient wait
I run.