Steel kisses ginger air.
I look
outwards, out towards her burning flame
on that
early autumn night. Her presence lounges between the rooftops.
Waiting.
When we get outside,
it is raining, and the abusive hum of the
steelworks is hungry and haunting. Thin dustings of frozen water stick to the skin of the windscreen. Running a long finger across the roof
of the car, I draw a line in the wet.
Above us it rears itself. I see a muscular backbone of post-apocalyptic gothic temples
where you have to worship. Its culture is slag. Its children are steel. Its worshippers, fire.
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