Anna Conway, Contributor.
In this distance, a
man looks as if he is
made up of other men
who are made of smoke
In this distance, the sky
ends where the air looks
at the rag of heaven
In this distance, the footpath
gets as close to hell as it can
with a swollen black vein and
burning red man
In this distance, the doors
are shut, always and
covered in a bright black tar
repainted every hour by the sweat
from the workers
the walkers the
fuckers who don’t know the difference
between a slap and a song
In this distance, eyes don’t exist.
In this distance, the most
disgusting thing is a kiss –
the blinking that pulls away
sight in this daylight raid,
the long way out
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