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blue air resides often where i stand, watching from under the hazy spires of Bonn. clocks run, watches are timed, and in a matter of minutes people are lined outside the gents' toilet. outside we make sense of nonsense and chip away at the nose of Donatello. amidst flying colours and spread words, in the patch of humanity melts and touches arms. like gum and gold, the sequinned wear sparkles from where you look at but has no consistency.
amidst the languages, i will stamp my hand in the red soil, i will brand it on the wall of a house, my home?, and i will look scorningly at the sun. life is here. come down, you, get off your high horse. in every smile and tear, in the rolled up pants.
home is where my foot crosses, river and ford, jungle and terrace. Tea and berries.