My City

The strange thing about Brighton is
that everyone takes it so slow,
the buffalo
stampede
so quietly here.

Any other city
would spin on its head,
its thread
threaded
that much tighter;

but Brighton is quieter,
slighter,
mightier

than any city on wheels.

Brighton is a hush
of colourful mouths,
a blush
of colourful blouse,
the rush
of a single mouse,

but, my god,
it seems to press in
so tight.