This is actually how to get to my flat. With a little license (and assuming charity workers are out frequently enough).
Past sky grey trams you walk, you come to me, through alien territory,
turn left at persistent charity workers and don’t stop, you’re two skyscraper stars
and straight on till morning. Past history, converted wine bar factories,
ghosts of debris from ancient Pompeii bombs, and nuclear bunkered restaurants
scuttle past angel meadow, under the train track bridge where we travelled in time,
and turn, past smashed glass, three months old following teenage goths until you reach my door.