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A shimmering throng anxious to be seen,
braided voices rising like honey smoke,
stained glass walls smear light on faces and make
a noisy shallow reef of the scene.

Brightly coloured fish turning slip slidewise,
hands gently waving while shattered glass guitars
cut frames from the bricks and wrap them around stars,

and they will swim in beauty all their days.

But at the stair’s foot a ragged man sits
autumn leaf riffling a grey bible,
pencil poised to footnote his own mad truth.
And I leave wondering why I do not fit,
nurse cooling coffee to hold a table,
watch the street, hope to vanish into myth.