The reefs of bus cables against cloudline. A waist dawning in a white brick stairwell, salt under your fingernails, the morning’s widow’s walk around the seawall, gulls chanting your name, the climb to the turret where you grew up. Teen-steamed glass booth in the long wait of spinal tap rain. Are you sure about leaving, again, this time? You can cut your ties with stories but not with certain bus stops. On this city hill, they leave computers in the alleys for students who rove in hungry from the forests, rise with the heat from basement suites. You sold this friendship to the pawnshop three different times before it finally went. The ocean slumps at the end of the phone line. Streets, daylighted gutter creeks, morning shoulders, your legs still walking home. There are entire neighbourhoods you need to forgive.
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