On The Victoria Line the rolling stock
feels old and grout fails mosaics. Back then
we were corpuscles pumped through a Titan’s body.
I asked if we could go there. You said Brixton
connections were too infrequent to warrant
the journey. Now, rush hour net throws up errors
like that pale blue horizon. Somehow
your name appears as an audio credit and Bowie’s
asterism is the wrong way round.
Not much further past Kings Cross, a grey man
probes what follows after The Great I Am
robs passports, boots and sedatives.
You are less traceable than a comet. And
his thunderbolt should point at the right clavicle.
Still too close to the heart.
Out in cold air black ice has done its work. Again
I buy flowers. Slip them to ground. Bowie’s face
shines like eloquent graffiti.
He rises through shin high water. Tells me
tissues are not needed here. But you and him
were branches of a huge brachial artery.
Walthamstow. Central to your existence.
Brixton. A Giant’s fingertip.
©Natalia Spencer 2016
Imo David Bowie 2016
Imo Stephen Hardy 2011