I woke up. Flies. Flight. Morning. Dream sweat. The chatting of magpies. Where from? Regent's Park? What do you think I but I was by myself In sheets alone and shivered by it — a back left cold in the dark. All night since the going, the real going and gone — although I don't think the flight was till five in the morning, what-ever use that news to my spine. Made no matter soever to these environs, which maintained their water tricklings and heel clacks on the stairs. Outdoors already aware, growing loud with street speech. Truck sweepers' spray and the vacuates of buses across the ankles of impatient queues. Dioramas of rush hour except here, above, where I lay by the alarm clock I'd chosen not to wind up because summer, et cetera. And because what fool aspires to waking into What will I do? All only placing distance, of course, before the arrival of how you were not, really not, there. Instead I gave into imagining where you were in the air. The skies of London. The skies over Vancouver. Or no, not quite yet. So let my knees turn me over and up I got.