Lewis Haubus – In Northern Quarter

In Northern Quarter

She orders drinks as if catching
words for colours in a butterfly net,
and the camera remembers
positions of distance.

We imagine printed pages care how they are read,
your fingernails match your rings,
then lose these instances like cigarettes, like cellophane,
until they are months.

Gin lemonades exist to be counted on teeth,
her city never contains centre
but breathes in and responds as arrival,
because this is our deal,

that you are
a tiny part of the world
in a tiny part of the world,
as am I.

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