I am running back today, to London, for a quick breath.
I am looking for my feet and for my friends. For the tiny space of quiet in the corners, and the for the push of the people against my shoulders.
I am ready for the dampness and ready for the attention I need to pay the details demanding.
The march of doorways, the march of wrought iron, the sway of bus tops, the nick of treetops.
It’s been a month less than a year and I am dressed in walking shoes and layers, quieting down for the long airplane journey, ready for another journey home.
Everyday’s an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me
The movies and the factories
And every stranger’s face I see
Reminds me that I long to be …
