Midnight in Kings Cross
Clocks slip across
The edges of days
Like scalpels—but
All I remember are
Moments in tatters from
Pages ripped ragged.
The mute yellows of
A single cigarette and
A leaf too late for autumn.
Faces tracing footpaths and
The dying winter sun.
God has no scalpel just
Dirty hands and more
Pages to tear than even He
Can remember.