The steps are chipped

and winding down to
darkness lit by a single

Walls pocked and cracked
pitted crevices
appear where
I put my hand

It is a dizzy route
this circle of survival
pivots round a central
pole but is not

Marked by chalk or
pointer yet I cannot stand
in this dust
you have to be a

Mole to breathe
this air and journey
in the dark
without a thought

Senses track, to a levelling
of stone
and latticed skin
splintered by the

Wooden rails -
hanging on, and in
fingers feeling
braided rope, brailled

Air.  Stones jump
and jitter in the
bony light, walls pock
and crack where

I place my hand.  With
passage I can make
the difference, fit
the stone

Bring it back
on course, the stairs
justified, feet
paced and fired, turning

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