At last, a day of spring light.

It turns gold around 5 or 6 o clock as it goes.

The squarish shadows	                          as it goes

upwards in a chunk.

The buildings are so solid here.
I cross the lawn and through glass doors down spiralling fans of stairs into the library

basement seeking out his poems. Their warmth. I pause on the picture of Auckland.

The clocktower flanked by tips of trees. The sky blank blue behind.

His name in the contents. Open to page 243.
        No sound. I used to have him reading aloud. ‘Starfish Streets’. I used to walk

        along, matching the march of my untutored feet to the beat of his voice on my

        mp3. He told of an old town full of ghosts. His voice froze at that moment.

        Pause. Play. At a touch melting into Brunswick, soundwaves lap, soothe, pull

        me back. A vivid private track on repeat.            I followed word for word.

        2am, hands clacking the tips from that dodgy pizza place.

                                      Another just for now. 
                       Sweet hurt heart shapes

                                 spotted in thought clouds

                                             leading back to Aotearoa.
                                                                Auckland. The clocktower

                                                                 The scrumpy tree near.

                                                                 Afternoon. Sun. Some girl.

Stop.

Hot librarian. Definitely flirts. This could be my chance

to fuck in the staff-only room.

and if we             fast forward to the last scene.

                              Babies I guess. Dog. House. Lawn.

                              Dot dot dot. Debt debt debt.
Outside it is dark, but not as cold as I’d thought

walking back across the evening grass.