emerald hill in 24 hours
every time the seesaw touches the ground is a point i make
on emerald hill. when you are not looking at someone someone else
is looking at you. they look blank but those windows have eyes.
you are like these buildings who preserve their black and white candour
even though a picture must be taken in colour
and tweaked as such. when i pass by a house
the incense is so fragrant that the silence stinks with life.
occasionally a voice punctures the charming canvas
and the outsiders pretend to be children
while all the neighbours look on. i say outsiders
though the trees lean in on themselves and it is hard
not to think of the sky as a bowl turning itself in like a criminal
so that others like it may find incarceration
at the end of the rainbow.
my legs are crossed this time. if you are not careful
i will fall. the buildings are leering
they lean across to touch the trees and if you are not careful
they will fall inside on us.
the streetlights stare at you.
behind the row of the trees the laughter is hidden away
and flows into the expressways. out of the street
two people step and they flood with light. he sings
a love song
and then they both disappear when they kiss
because we never saw them at all.
this place is old and strong and if things fall
it will be us that fall like outsiders. i say outsiders
though we know nothing about the foreigners
who stay in these pre-war houses but like two people
meeting for the first time the only thing we
talk about is the architecture.