The charity shop cowers in the shadow of street
illumination. Underwood crawls by, drunk.
He drags a shopping bag he can't remember
picking up. From within, embers of himself
engineer a slow release of smoke, burnt
offerings before the dull window display,
itself a foil for the vigil of neon alphabets,
and candle stubs on restaurant tables.
Underwood incinerates the litter bins
and bus shelters, triggers a Mexican wave
of security alarms, by automatic doors
dumps the bag, a gift for his ex-lover
who sleepwalks the supermarket aisles.
Their lengthening keeps her nightmares lit.