At night the eyes return
to chaopolitan Pigalle,
its bright explicit boulevards,
those jagged unlit backstreets,
women lean and watch.

The Boulevard de Rochechouart
sizzles at a billion amps;
the median strip’s a circus
of dodgem cars and hardcore
‘New York Nights’.

Down Islam town
a thousand gazes slice,
trinketry lures,
trestle tables stacked with denim
jam the pavement.

At night the eyes return
to one sure face in shadows petalled;
by day the lodged hooks stay –
a certain calf-curve stockinged
sends the mind into a zone of scents.

Anaerobic violence
circulates beneath the skin, and there
the background dream
keeps running.