City mirrors the soul’s own anthems, landmarks, apparitions and traffic jams. William Blake would be at home in Michael Boughn’s tough and devilish town, apocalyptic in its ferocious litanies and bellicose arsenals, its grinding insistent engine roar ruling out nothing, in the midst of which an ironic I, both innocent and experienced, detects a gently scented boudoir, green and hilly resolutions. City hums/with a sudden inoperable thrill, and even at the end of the world, songs pour / out someone’s hidden window.