brutalist

Dwinin

Sherp, deid gless glents oot o orra grun.
Midden-weeds that heeze aginst the rubble
grow in the shape o aabody’s pain.
Here, wi broken doors that nae human haun
can open, naebody wull tak the trouble
tae walk gled-hairtit on these steens again.

Outsiders

Rain on stone
Drips from sills,
Floods the gutters,
Drains away.

The empty streets are always empty.
Faces reflect in windows; rain falls anyway.

Crossroads

Went down to the crossroads

Tried to beg a ride. 

Asked, can anyone show me mercy?

Got nowhere left to hide;