Forced to quit

Leaving becomes you, gypsy-like as ever, always moving to another campsite. I dreamt that you now live on a hill... that you have laid the room bare, departed just as I found a place of entry.

Train ride back through London Bridge station to New Cross Gate. I saw you passing, looked up and glanced, caught a glimpse of you up there, on the 8th floor of Hercules Tower. Meanwhile the camera from your last trip, to a room I haven't even lived in yet, barely imagined, is full of negatives, forensic evidence of an earlier departure.

You mentioned Savile Row, I will pass by there tomorrow.