I can hear little clicks inside my dream.Read More
Night drips its silver tap
down the back.
At 4am I wake. Thinking
of the man who
left in September.
Splinters from AmericaRead More
Splinters from America.Read More
In the dark at night I walk to Turtle Ridge. There are savings which are not mine in an account I have access to, and with this money I call a cab and ride to town, where I catch a night bus to the city which takes me to the train station. The trains to London leave late, and from the capital I take the tube – the Central line to Holborn, then the Piccadilly – to the airport. At Heathrow I can buy a ticket to LAX, and fly all night over ocean and highway to California. From there, I guess, I’d get a cab to the train station, then the Amtrak to Irvine, and then – I know the route – I could walk to Turtle Ridge. Up the long curve of the hill, then left, then right: number fifty-nine. Safe.Read More
After two days I get out of bed and pad barefoot to the bathroom. There is no one in the house and I haven’t showered since I slept on the east coast. America clings to me like aftershave and sweet sweat on a T-shirt. I don’t want to be alone with it any longer.Read More