eyes are closed, with the orange spot I never noticed until he took a picture of it
somewhere between Helsinki and Halifax, between Caerau and Donegal
and I drew a line in chalk from Trafalgar Square to the edges of Drury Lane,
where flowers grow in pots, overflowing, pink tendrils in my peripherals
my too-worn saddle shoes feeling all the rounded edges of brick roads,
made when the city was a fussy child, unyielding clay, consumed by fire often
these soles were not meant to walk the streets, when I am delirious from hunger
I cannot speak because of lockjaw, self-imposed, cunning but that's a given
so I let words love those I long to inform myself, never just the one
I want to write everyday, with chalk, with a keyboard, with pens stolen
I imagine you softening at the edges when you drink, glasses finally off
something pools inside me as I leave a suburban home and arrive in Antarctica
cracks in saddle shoes allowing snow to seep in, like a hard up for cash friend
and I am finally allowed to be quiet, to not say much, sound dampened anyway
so I find a street, and I walk, playing tic tac toe on glaciers, eyes closed
