She swirls her finger around the chanting bottleneck:
I don’t know where we end.
She looks at the sunbeam crackling in her ring:
I don’t know where we begin.
It’s raining colours around us
through sunglasses, through tree leaves,
through the windows of the 58 bus.
She raises her head, slowly, and squints:
her eyes a dozen meadows of green.
She lifts her bottle, takes a sip of lemonade:
her sigh a dozen serenades.
It’s raining colours around us
through sunglasses, through tree leaves,
as she vanishes with the 58 bus.
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