Certainty & knowledge are not compatible.
This city both misses
& overtakes the point.
The way forward is a brighter light.
We are asked
to mistake the glare for truth.
One’s eye avoids the cracks
but I am told there is a fine script there too.
Even the trees wear a progressive concrete.
I have been shown a future
though children still fidget
& pick their noses.
We are all done by Sunday afternoon,
tables cleared, rooms repolished.
Those with destinations are despatched.
Down in the backstreets
a sweeper’s bin is full.
She sleeps in the amnesty of shade.
Her split-bamboo broom preens.
José thinks the air is gasping,
I think it sighs.
By the important building
a sentry, so straight
he could be plaster.
Except he yawns.
I think he dreams
Dogs discard their leashes.
There is talk of love again
& a gwailou’s tears are preposterous.