Lampposts at the base loosen their steel
under the force of moss. The curtains
of my room are statues of fountains,
arching perceptively against the smoke
in the wind. Flowers pressed between bars
of iron gates, paper fans against luscious
velvet – this house has survived contrasts.
You will know my city for its beauty –
the nightly binging on shadows – voices
that pry into sprouting pods. Feet scale
towards an immeasurable sky. You will
never see a string of birds free like the kite.
Pigeons coiling their wings on unknown
rooftops, squabbles with domestic eagles.
April has arrived last night with a bang
of flies. Somewhere else, a neighbour
hadn’t switched off their lights.