Note to Self
Sidestep the pavement and stave off the crowd
as it rushes on, senseless. Tread softly; only paint
separates your soles from the ground, belting down
amber on asphalt. The nights are longer here, colder –
the fog less deliberate – so remember: breathe.
(You get an extra hour either way.)
Pray before your grandfather forgets. Fumble
with the idea of pier – the words will come,
and with it, place. Think harbour; think seas
of disposition; think the world off
its axis – eraser shavings and dust, minds
mapping paths from here to home.