I am only my road, my winding route,
you are the mango orchard beside it.
You’re the languid afternoon, heavy with fruit.
You are the absence that makes the music –
the blowhole and openings of the flute.
An orchid-white jet contrail, I’m hardly there
once the craft has flown, easily confused
with a daub of cloud. You’re water, and air.
The one true north, the point where all routes are housed;
my broad breathing earth; my paved city square.