There is a man
penned high up on
a balcony on Whitfield Street and
his cough punctuates each
morning. From shadows, exclamation marks
stab and ellipses hurtle, scattering
like buckshot on blueblack
tarmac at my feet.
I wonder, does typography intrude
on others’ dreamscapes? Hacked
commas and spat bracket
shells to detonate slumber. And
who inside has turfed him out? Daily
ritual of a spent baritone isolated,
shelving time, excoriating himself while
she (?) indoors sighs

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