Swimming in cycles, I pattern an air;

dash, cross, the mimes of meeting,

they are a crime and I am a road-side

mottled hard, cracked paving,

the worse for wear, but a red light

lights my eye and guides my thought,

a spark in a second, a buzzing phone.

I throw out dust and paper, reels of film

sun-baked, reeling, cracked,

replace with seconds from the fountain,

hiding in the inner court, the rows

of sun, smooth over, swat eyes,

illumine the channel of white and I,

the heavy, chiselled word.