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The migrant shops of Brixton can but speak
with textures of leather of felt of fur,
I walk along this greasy flowered street
gaining the sense I'm in London no more.
Although air can gather and turn to blind
it brings tight skins of dry and dulling sound,
Amistad panels store by store combine
to capture and release my heavy-set brow.
A foreign inclusion with furs and felt
like the suede invading a smokers lung
square shouldered teeth capture a Cossack's pelt,
no room for Russians the Polish still come.
Ask not what you can do to poetry, but what poetry can do to you.