I
am a night-time walker, I
prefer dark, dark public
parks,
the sound of the bush splitting
a grin, baked earth beneath my
walker’s feet.
A night-time walker, I
prefer outskirts around my
walker’s knees, the sound of the silken breeze.
I, a night-time walker,
am a conduit for
remarks.
I am a night-time walker.
A matter-of-time walker. An
it’s-awful-but-she banshee
proffering blistering screams.
I –
a look-up walker, a lock-up
walker, a parcel of soft runnels
– am gunning my way home.
