‘It was snowing in London, and I was eating my dinner in a coat.
You told me it was snowing in Paris too,
And I looked up at the flakes falling from the sky.
My fingers were red and shaking.’

‘You, who navigates a straight line,
by moonlight are trapped in my electric cloche.’

‘They had the freedom to walk
In the weak sun and take in the evening breeze

Nothing moved them so much as the cold winds
Bleaching the slag-gray bay some mornings’

‘I will escape from here. Twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes hold me from the abiding, nearly habitual rush. Not much…and at the same time an infernally long patch.’