Corset shop window in the East End

Outlasts patched and swollen bodies: their armour, steeled and buckled. How they scythe on through breaking seas these figurehead women. Oh but the bruised wet heart bound in its hull the hoarded shillings. Oh Mignonne Miranda Nymph molasses and pineapples, smoke curling over the river. A poster calls hey girl Tonite Dance Dance Dance. And at first light the river opens its doors the foreshore lies glistening scattered with ribbons and broken mirrors. Think of Eliza, think her glancing shadow in shadows of big-bellied shirts cool hollows of sheets in full sail across Dock Street, light on her face fanning open and shut. Oh girl Hecate Circe Medea riding the tideway into the eye of the wind.

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