London at Night | Greta Bellamacina
the unbearable night
the night building which washes water
the night wind which sounds like trapped radiator spirits
the night red light mill
the night full of ship tears
the night window that pains
the mystery that calls you old-fashioned
the night meadow of drafts
the water you would plant under the ground
to save a generation.
The night walls that shudder flowers
the night woman who is bare
the equal distances from arms and closed eyes
and gardens that makes a city wide.
The great face of street kingdoms
the letting of strangers
with metal coloured necks and the sex of swans.
The night cars that are already knocked at doors
the eyes of god lamps
the night love of dead trees
the five stoned fat of sunlight behind the night
the nights spangle of solace
the park firing of birds
the parks angels
the denial of kneeing
the fear of the colour grey
the night that is your collar bones
the night which is a wife
the nights common breath
the night watching over the year
and requiting the vertical fires of land
with sea-sore heads.
The unforgiving night
the polite notion of restarting and the barking of roses.
The night skin of summer
the eight ways you became bother and sister
for the sake of rainwater
freely whiter than burnt wood.
Poetry by Greta Bellamacina
Poetry & Prose Editor
Image: The Serpentine Galleries’ Magazine Restaurant
Photographed by Champ