Sometimes I come for the ghosts of arguments. The stone-chip in a windscreen, The tell-tale tyre track rubber. Counterfeit diamonds of brake light glass. Sideswiped scars of shunts and scrapes and scratches. Wing mirrors hanging loose. Key-lines scored on a door. Paintwork peeled by acid. A bumper hanging off. Front grille buckled inwards. Radiator liquid leaking. A brick wall newly collapsed; roadway strewn with rubble. The oil that could be blood. The tiles that could be confetti. Twisted street-sign sculptures. A missile-strike to cleave through lives. A maw of tower blocks smouldering. New holes to breathe the night.