You are running on the rain-dark pavement through Sutton Park.
Where I am, sun. All the dehumidifiers are on in the house. No
fireplaces. Some seas are colder than others, some bodies warmer.
I am drinking Iron Buddha: leaves waiting for their time to blossom.
It is too spring here for my own good, too much green in the salad
bowl. Too many stories of salvation; earlier, blue beyond belief.
The moon is lying on its back in my dreams. What a smile looks
like. A toothbrush touches my lips. Asian steamed sea bass for
dinner with white rice. Victoria Harbour was named after your
queen. How many hearts in a deck of cards shuffled across two
continents? I am catching a plane again tonight, thinking about the
map on your neck.