Days since I spoke, muted trees. Patches
of light on my skin. The sun’s echoes. I
hide in parks, or kill time in shopping
aisles. All the good people here. Moved
along. Fixing at someone else’s address.
Wet hair at tram stops. An idea you had
for harnessing the air. I forget how it
was supposed to work. And your name? No
use denying it. That was mine, once. We
never did agree on the time or place for
such serious discussions. Just wanted to
be left alone. Well, here I am, happily.
The tyre-treads of hope have left their
marks on the road of my bitumen face.