Early Hours

Under a miners lamp moon we work the seam, me, and the forced insomniacs who pay homage to a Tachometer god, and the workmen who appear like forensic scientists beneath halogen sunshine, running repairs at the coal-face. Where the streetlights thin and the pit-black encroaches citscape constellations sparkle quartz-like and all the while we steal time from absent adversaries who usually clog the way like so much slag.