From here I see black folds of burnt cladding
creates at illogical angles,
where before sturdy lines of white and grey
had adorned the rows. It stood obvious and yet unseen.
Now it peels, perforating, receding back on itself.
And we look at it.
We look at the black. The layers of black.
And the billowing, bent metal.
From here I see a hollow, gaping mouth,
its teeth knocked away, a broken smile, almost
screaming an interminable echo of silence
to a wall that cuts us off now from the wealth here.
From here I stand atop my own cladded tower,
at the right angle to the horror that hollowed that mouth
the night before,
but now I am lucky, because I am seen.
Haringey Unchained 