just as a cube is to a square and a tesseract is to a cube so this evening with you is to the song in my head which searches on the wrong pavements for its accidental notes finding instead only fungible things and lost as the travelling air (in her slippers) I bestow a buttery kiss on each eyelid of the axis of doubt you are everything that I’m sure wasn’t there yesterday but the butterscotch flavour eludes me and on the inside we am a balcony looking across at so much snow humming and failing to taste my half-remembered after midnight the origami palace we made is lost to us both it’s right there as it was before but the portico and all those staircases now look more like some deserted orchard and the closing door of her bedroom and the sacred emblem of our fearsome burning tyres

James Lewis