Pulls her hood up, warm and private, curls a hand around her head, tips forward, to write, a life, a story, scenes from a drama of perfect being, Green Tara in Woolworths / in library. Now outside sandwich, standing, oblique, walls are damp, powdery. I'm in her eyes, looking. I can hardly see ‐ this city dust ‐ a moment to decide which voice to listen to.