a wet night in wellington


I look up and see
a storm of a thousand falling lights;
swirling droplets of white ember,
silver beads.

Evening air flickers with rain,
cast under the ink,
passing through the black
naked branches of a tree;
pearl outlines the leaves,
deeper green than the shaded seas
an inlet a mile deep.

The madman without shoes;
rocks upon his folded knees,
sat in the ashes of the cigarettes
he collects
and smokes,
“The madman without direction;
rocks about the dampened streets,
mind the puddles.”

Television skies,
roaming channel greys
felt on cheeks like pins;
ice dabbing not the ears,
the eyes.

Breath-like smoke,
huddled girls looking for a jacket.

Left Bank to Opera House Lane
then home;
rows of punked-up concrete,
metal grails,
brickwork bracing downcast waters
to wash us all away.

My toes are wet.

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