. . . from beginning to end is concerned with
vaults, sidewalks, curbs, streets, bits, bolts, fences,
locked windows, narrows, frames, aching walls.
Whenever I visit you,
I feel I am turning into Emily Bronte —
my lonely heart around me like a moor.
. . . Not enough spin on it,
be said of our five years out here on the streets of this city.