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On Centralplatz

entry picture

Look close, look far

too far?

(too far)

Cars come, cars go

tortured, metal boxes, smudged colours

on tattered tarmac.

Pneumatic drill sounds, distant

hammering, dry clatter

on summer paving.

A man, newspaper

folds and departs kiosk

shimmered in sun.

The calls from traders

I heard them, then

did not hear them

(refused to hear them).

Stepped inside a porch


Tired, but wary.

Checked watch.

I could swim in these August

clouds, if I wanted.

And I waited

almost hunched.

Quite alone, from there.

And I waited.


For something

to happen.


◄ The Boathouse

Prisoner 1.0 ►


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