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Stimulus: ‘But getting the wind kicked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air…your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal…’ (Sarah Kay, If I Should Have a Daughter)

Black cold fences with slippery rails.

Menacing guards to black shop fronts, black concrete black grating over sewers.

Dull gold tips pointedly dare you to trespass.

Falling into expected rhythms, the cop in my head says overcautious neighbours will report my playing as ‘suspicious behaviour’.

Green fuzzy weeds tickle me as I monkey crawl around jagged flower pots.

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A marble bench with pig ears transforms into my shore, my lookout, my rooftop.

People stare though I’d like them not to. It’s setting off alarms (in my head) and I pretend to look at the menu of a Korean restaurant till they walk past. I’m slipping between worlds: stone grey pavement gives way like twisted ankles.

Unevenness and blind toes lead me to small yellow flowers.

Hope looks beautiful in the harshest environments.

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