FrissonA huge dark cloud squats on Tipton,a giant panda eye rimmed brightly with zinc-oxide edges, while elsewhere someone enjoys late evening sun. Suddenly the wind hisses through leaves on roadside trees, rain begins to spatter my bald head. The stench of diesel abates as the squall develops, whips junk-food litter into frantic vortices; a double-decker slipstream flaps my jacket; and somewhere, I sense, somebody is walking roughly on my grave. Press the play button to hear the poem |