615 - a sad saturday before, I ask. Home is where the water wells up, and birds stretch atop the clothesline. I hold myself around the arms held around me. A sudden barbarous peace, like a streamlet after it rains — and how little it does. you listen to the petals, the stems and vapours, your mouth is sand and wind and sand again. The papers, as usual, sling the world away from us. My fingers stretch atop your face, as birds, but sleep is my flight. what we look at was once green. It will be green again. our sky of ferocious light is now drowned in brutality. it is possible to appear lost, suddenly or not quite. not a lot of light is needed so that we see a way out. we just don’t want to leave, at least not before it rains again.