Beauty Marred My Own Little Cargo Cult

As a child, mother’s aluminium head-lice comb
Was more beautiful than any princess’s diadem.
I saw it’s avatars in music box clockworks,
Turnstile’s thaumatropes , science fair spectroscopes
And lately, on the Grosvenor Road .

The park railings’ diffraction grating
Transfigured the wet road.
The tram-lined aurora of traffic and car lights
Slothful as electrophoresis.
Blink comparators of Belitia Beacons at either end.
Efflorescence of smashed glass
From bottles the winos had flung.
Chromatographs of oil leaks where I stopped
To cross the road;
Lit by white headlights, then jaundiced sodium
Like variegated Plasticene I overwrought to brown
As a child.
The sign subsumes the signifier in the park.