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by DS Maolalai


the whole town was built

for walking around in,

with leaves in drifts

like the skin of dead animals

and pretty girls

dressed in dresses

turning their heads

at traffic lights.

they make beer all over here

and everything smells

like the steps of fermentation;


and slowly roasted oats.

the air is

crisp as biscuits.

wherever you look

you get reminded of ironwork

and old stories

and grey stone frying white in the sun.

I sit against a cafe window

and finish a cigarette with a relish.

the buildings filter light

like strains of tea

and the castle casts shadows

you can practically touch.

evening comes closer

up north.