I will settle in to the storms and waves
And find peace in the gaps

The spaces between set-up and torn-down

From cliff to cliff
We’ll find heart in the air that separates
where we were to the places we are going

My home is made of grit and dirt

The taps run sweat,

the windows are shattered,

their glass clinging to frames

like broken teeth to gums in the mouth of a boxer.

My town is a fighter,

built of scrap metal and machines.

The streets are steel

and the river nuts and bolts,

its gears turn through rust

and parts corrode away.

Time turns it green, orange,

black with oil and grime,

but my city is a fighter,

made of grit and dirt,

and it lives.

Isn’t physically quick or agile.

Disappears in libraries.

Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.

Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.

Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.

Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.

Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.