man & bike & small girl & small dog &

whoosh a slightly more than average pleasure

coincides with existing, maybe pottering.

a snarl from behind spectacles.




talking fragrantly at the glisten of a copper

tea-service element. vines creep out the back.

we sink into solipsistic love-routines:

scratch my back / butter my toast.




across the street they write to feeding pigeons.

i see something in the democratising of scraps.




allan border’s philosophy (his story) will remain

a touchstone but amplified in children’s ears:

triumph through obscurity. now to grasp a

nice broken sleep, ponder a muffled hubbub.