A small slice of Europe. Café Lorca Makes me crave huevos de gamba and strong black coffee Il Papiro whis­per­ing to me of Firenze and the old bridge across the Arno look­ing up towards Ponte alle Grazie Book­shops that laugh at me because I’m not in the Marais and throw…

A child gashes their foot on a sharp screw, unat­ten­ded. Her mother com­pla­cent, absent. A man mis­in­ter­prets a word here and next thing you know, fur­niture raised over­head, glass tinkles as it’s smashed, draw­ers flung across a room leave gaping wounds in a chest  — and…

And it turns out that’s unfor­giv­able Because I’m now writ­ing lines to you in my head Lying in the dark in my bed It does­n’t matter that I sent you other words Sur­repti­tious in the social stream Oscar Wilde’s hand soft on Walt Whit­man’s knee Let us be to each other…

I am writ­ing lost love let­ters to ampersands, my favour­ite — with its cur­licues in arcane typefaces, it peeks out at me from designer invit­a­tions & grungy res­taur­ant names & I play seek. I invent reas­ons to unfurl my ampersands & sneak our way into…

AND here i am again sit­ting in a seat in the sky rocky, knocked against the seat­belt, think­ing how peace­ful and my three-and-a-half year old wait­ing at the gate, think­ing not ready to go, not this time, as we glide down and i see your match­box cars wend­ing through…