of the currents,
ears not picking up the undertone,
the sanctuary of solitude proved too tempting.
And so a little walk,
alone among strangers,
along the final furlong of this sorry nation's race track
(or, perhaps, making pigeon steps along the terminal verterbrae
of its crooked backbone)
I find the life that I have been lacking.
Wilfully I dwelt on a mildly painful
yet satisfying memory,
like picking at a little scab,
and there found a little happy corner.
I faced the sun, though it was too bright for November.
I curled up on the pavement and sang myself to sleep.