Threading rapidly between crowds on Royal Avenue, reading
Simultaneously, and writing in this black notebook, peering through
A cracked lens fixed with Sellotape, his rendevous is not quite vous
But from ears of watching I know the zig-zag circle:
He has been the same place many times, never standing still.
One day I clicked with his staccato walk, and glimpsed the open notebook:
Squiggles, dashes, question marks, dense as the Rosetta Stone.
His good eye glittered at me: it was either nonsense, or a formula – for
Perpetual motion, the scaffolding of shopping lists, or the collapsing city.