On the tiles, View St

You will always remember this:
splinters and blisters. Night picnic
on scaffolding. Ripped tights, woollen gloves. Gravel
in your shoe. Hold on to everything: rimed iron piping
his hip, his hand - now lie on the tiles. Like sand-
paper? Yeah. Find the Pot and the Southern
Cross, and there’s the Savoy, Robbie
Burns, the Octagon, the Crown. Lights like
fluorescent anemones. Fold into
the blurred edges of Thursday night
when you’re all the places you shouldn’t be. Your
room’s messy but the city is pretty from up here
and we could probably get all the way out to
the ocean tip-toeing across rooftops with this
ninja balance we’ve got.