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.