By | 24 September 2002

I am tired, and in a Métro car
accelerating 15 minutes of walking distance

So that when I brake from the seat
I read on the recoil:

Hôtel de Ville

and then listen
for the generator and coughs
Like listening for your parents through a summer's night
the stations are empty
but for the brakes' burn and every wooden light

I sleep
fingering that holed mosquito net.



Even in a tunnel you'll leap at a snap
Caring afterwards
whether you threw water on the barbeque
the doors' locks clacked
or if the remaining calf in the gully paddock is

to forget
How you saw the edits
and then slept through your stop.

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