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Magnus Dixon


Chessboards of sparkling steel and glass
vibrate in the thunders’ off-beat.
The sky is iron and its beat is sparse,
as rain drums down on steel pan streets —

Their chequered slabs fizzing with people;
accents elope into spilling red brick sound.
In Far Gosford Street and shadows of the steeple
there are mosaics of notes and the music is loud.

Teal copper is shattered by the rain
and resurrected by three fountains plumes.
The skyline is graced by wind-stricken cranes —
conducting the city’s ghost town tune.

In two tone basements songs slowly rise.
Polished brass and steel strings
echo in pylons and electric skies.
And people dance in the song the city sings.


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