These are the things,
that roll us along,
to the next time the bins go out,
and again, and again.
Footbrakes on time, and gathering speed, without us,
time runs out, for some.
We will not forget, these years,
details disremembered.
Loss, thick sadness, self-care,
get over it, these wounds are not the foulest they could be.
Apathy for unchanged aromas, unchanged sounds,
with curiosity perfected,
of the magpies, and the grain of the fence.

I miss you, go away.
And meet me under the clocks, below the ballroom, by the red granite purse.
Let’s chart the city through colognes,
Guatemalan beans brewed green apple and brown sugar caught on the laneway draught,
roasted cashews from David Jones,
waffles in the underpass, with bin juice and ammonia.
Inhale the City Loop, running fingers on the escalator, sharply down into familiar blue.