I
Not really equatorial – in fact

not at all, but distinctly northern,

and seeming twice as close

as the city I call home, houses

weatherboard and colourful as beach

houses carved in the mountain,

sunset soon after 4

(being on the wrong side)

the smell faintly tropical-

the overhang a more sickly green.
(And the cat vomiting snake,

though this isn't really latitudinal,

simply a result of undergrowth.)


III
Road are like veins. That's

what they say, right? Like veins

that crisscross, that lead to and away

from the heart. Or maybe like stitches

instead. The roads are like threads

finely stitched into patchwork,

slightly frayed where different thicknesses

pull. The contours of roads

are like clues: tattoos on the body.

I piece them together-villages

strung in a row. Like a quilt

that unfolds (light fabrics only-

the heat leaves no need for

fireside quilts) it all lies

before me: the roads are like

seams too fine to unpick. Surely
someone went blind for this city.