In the city
There is an eerie wind
blowing glassy-eyed drops of rain
over a boy growing out of the pavement,
a girl sharing Nietzsche with a pigeon.
There’s nothing unusual about storms in September,
but the air is humid, and my neck is sweaty,
and it has been Autumn for a while now
– the leaves died in June; I also can’t help but feel
that the deep and shallow-buried roots of the city
are coming up through the concrete,
and like something elemental,
breaking it apart.
Charlie Hill's poems have previously appeared in Under the Radar, Ink, Sweat and Tears and Prole, amongst other publications.