Through the bedroom window becomes

A corner of an oasis of a

Transatlantic street

A city desert with blinding shiny glass and metal

The time-bleached summer of a New York basement

Where all the Factory freaks hang out

On the sun-cracked tarmac

They jam to the searing blaze

Sweet melody on a scrapheap of tangled steel

Colours that explode from the darkness below

Sounds that jangle through the dry yellow parchment

Dancing between the quotations and equations

Stolen hours

Wasted, precious days

Between something and nothing

The last chance, the last year

Of squandered youth

Drifting between islands of institution

Tiny cracks of freedom

In a grey to blue continuum

Over and over I wander and gaze

To the corner of waiting for

The junction of knowledge

And knowing

To ditch it all

No matter how many times

I return to the bench

I will make

The same choice again