Your legs crossed, foot hovering above the dusty boards, motionless, poised, suspended. Your boots: mud cracked, trampled in, caught in the striations of your sole: Gee Cross bracken, Didsbury leaves, slick skid of the wet city streets. Beyond the crowd, below the pipes, her soles are hot from the distant desert, still burning from the sun, steaming in Peter Street puddles. All roads in and out of town vanish to a point, the keys, black and white, intersecting, possibilities shining, your hands hovering, your fingers amongst the keys, between them, your fingers, the keys, the roads, the streets between them, the city is caught in my soles, I walk it out like a carpet into my home, lapping in, urban tide. I am under the water. The lights are low. The city is glistening.
27th October 2015
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