The sky turns in the window. It moves, slowly. A seagull flashes through or maybe lingers in the frame, bending along an unknown axis. Moving slowly, then.
What does it mean? To offer ourselves, lately I’ve been giving as a sort of beginning, a cinema screen spilling out after the trailers. I want to give this to you, to you.
I’ve been thinking slowly, then. I take a train to see Jules in Glasgow, new flat. The walls in the toilet are painted green, not like house plants but maybe Airwaves, like menthol chewing gum, you know?
We sit under a low tarp and talk about Dads, our Dads friends, this pho is better than last time and that I need to move through. I think the broth is tamarind, I think, I think.
Taking the train home, it occurs to me that I need to water the plants. But you see, I’ve been tending to things, really.
