When I met you at the lights you were holding your bike and holding your brother and your anger. Your breath clawed the pedestrian. They you said and it was in your mouth, the word, like sourdough bread. They! You caught the asparagus green, oiled and wok fried lights and began moving across the traffic like a flock of geese. Your brother called. He had been in the army. There were complicated telephones, thirteen digits. He was an engineer and his nose had been broken by a bath tile. It was she who picked it up, too. Caught in her eye like a coin at the bottom of a public pool; a lost watch in a sex act; snorkelling; the sun glinting off a buckle

– on the road was a sign.