Swimming in cycles, I pattern an air;
dash, cross, the mimes of meeting,
they are a crime and I am a road-side
mottled hard, cracked paving,
the worse for wear, but a red light
lights my eye and guides my thought,
a spark in a second, a buzzing phone.
I throw out dust and paper, reels of film
sun-baked, reeling, cracked,
replace with seconds from the fountain,
hiding in the inner court, the rows
of sun, smooth over, swat eyes,
illumine the channel of white and I,
the heavy, chiselled word.