There is Just as Much Zen in Glasgow as in Japan

Drunks crumble
into the slow smoulder of evening, murmuring

glossy singsong into the fulcrum of neon
to flutter feather-light

through forests of molten glass
where tarnished domes float their copper

on a Venice of fire, and motorbikes strum thundering
through the slits of alleyways, while trains

crash past suspended impossibly
on the creak of bridges, towering over

deep strew plastic and sauce-stain cardboard
crusting pavement lips, an underworld

of disposable cups
escaping from heaps, scuttling squeaky

as cockroaches, dissolved
in an instant bang-wallop summer rainstorm

that sends crowds shrieking through shop doorways
leaving the sodden streets absent-

but for the pitter-patter of drops,
the close hum of blood in the eardrum.