if i walk down london’s streets to
the ticking of the kitchen clocks—
rows of billowing steam from
stews and curries that do not remind me
i could almost traverse these eight hours, a
second and a step at a time,
outpacing the sun that stretches my shadow,
undulating against the cobbled mews.
i adore the way you speak my name—the hook
of your tongue reels me back from everything ugly,
crushing my mental map of loss.
i am named for the millionth time,
but beckoned for the first.
so i keep walking, addicted, faster than the
ancient tempo of seconds,
fast enough to escape the trawler of reason,
begging time to let me catch you at the end of my
yet the line in greenwich is stubbornly still,
itself a blade welded by visits of the sun,
carving up the temporalities that
melt away within these same four walls.
a playground of conversation—childlike fun until
you yawn and say good night and
blow me a kiss i wish the wifi would let lag.
i don’t lose, my dear, i can’t, not to time nor space,
so that’s why i rush home, wrestling the hands of the clock,
where i eat warm rice and xo sauce until
i’m no longer starved of the illumination of my screen.
until i forget that i am just like that paper-thin iris
i plucked and hairsprayed from your bouquet,
in a dark room,
leaning into that fluttering glow,
praying it’s not bloomberg news
and that the connection is just bad today.