I licked my finger, held it up, felt salt in the air, scented sea.

Maps were misleading. Roads were blue, rivers crimson.

There was a knack. I read it from the back, then found the city I knew,

lights sparking along streets, night pitching its yawn against windows.

Yes, I arrived, but not in autumn, not trailing dead leaves.

Everything was hot and grey, had taken a huge breath and held it.

In the market-place I thought I saw water. Soon, the small boat…a pair of oars?

Mulch of bananas and grapes in a stainless-steel bowl, just a quid,

and I could take him too, I knew that, with his chin-stud and look of a compass.

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