Right Move? : W L N Smith
Approaching the flat, set high in the walls
You can barely tell its opening
Its windows so overrun with soaking weeds
A jungle almost
Has grown from deep inside
Through its own balcony
Dragged itself up the brickwork
Now to hang dirty
A shade like off-spinach

The facia, bulwark-like, spans out in your scan of it
Either side to a point
Where its unconsciousness you start to suffer
So stop turning your head so much
Bow to the face above, head down to the door
A storm is coming in...

And, is it just your muzzy state
That makes you think you know this place: your sight
As fuzzy as a jpeg you once saw
That made you think of a day in a distant past
Or a possible future
One in which you lived here, aghast
At how far you'd slumped and let things slide
Outside the day was whipped by wind
And you were sat at angles
To a pillar wound tight with rotting greens

A sudden gust though, a lurch
And looking out to light
The walls were pushed to a brick-patterned point
Way away at either side,
Past the dew-fattened leaves
And then, for god's sake, you thought:
Just who is that moving below the window?