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AUBERGINE ANGELS
Inside Old Street station,
I meet my Waterloo:
 
Aubergine Afros, primed,
shining and armed, wrestle
 
my gaze from briefcases,
from city zombies’ eyes;
 
the sweating on the back
of broad builders’ T-shirts;
 
a small boy’s arms running
with ice-cream: a bacon
 
sarnie in the happy
mouth of a homeless man.
 
Arrested by the sight!
– the light of grander dark
 
halos moving me up
and out. So I exit
 
to City Road behind
young Black boys. Black angels.