ON YOUR STREET:
At your poetry exhibition the rhythm of the concrete sounded like
a windscreen being sprayed with fine grit. The footprints sounded like
wet sand being gently patted with the palm of a child’s hand
(except the deep one which sounded like a howl). ShadowS sounded like
electric humming, heard through a wall with your ear pressed against it.
The tiny broken bits blown from trees sounded like welding sparks
& your name made the sound of an ice-skater’s blades cutting fresh ice –
not loud, but in your ear like a whispered secret.