do they say brutalist – I wouldn’t

know, because I’m not a well-

defined man: but the church

in its grey assembly of walls—

a concrete burden— brings

suits to mind, dark ties, an afternoon

with a late 50s stench, no light.

clouds cower in the brittle air, it

is February, of course, all through

the street the echo of meat

being beaten. poetry by puffy-

eyed men, slightly sad, without

any space for women

to exist on their own. the grass

smells of rain, the lawns smell

of boredom. I was raised in

gardens like these, I can’t say

I like them, but they are

familiar, they’re a part of me,

which is why your taunt stings