Valerie Duff

In the Egyptian café in London, I drank coffee with men smoking hookah. Draw in, breathe out. The cup was small, the coffee harsh. I had to catch a train from Marble Arch. A still point, Byzantine, one star in a galaxy of trillions, I had to find my friends. Who cares what happened? I moved like a bat, darted, skittered towards the river. An old lady inching towards her complex screamed when I tried to help her with her walker. It was my life. The rooftops fracture. If I hadn’t jostled the mosaic maybe I could stop the picture. Buildings of stirred beach glass. Cresting sunsets comb the face, refine the land. The world goes sad. Like now? Like now. Even the ancients felt slips, skips in experience plotted as mathematical fact.