Pulteney Weir I want it like this, but without the dark water, without the signs: NO DIVING! KEEP OUT! I want to rest here, but without the water's rush and hiss, the twig transfixed between two currents.
I walk the streets and memories, like children, run and hide behind bins and lamp posts to jump out at their mothers. I want to come home.
I want to come down to the weir and sit, like I used to. But this water, this dread-green water,
dampens my face and I'm not even crying.