streets have a saliva sheen, the stones bathing in it. fog is school-pants grey, thick on the tongue. the older trams shudder until they stop and the conductor retires. drunks smirk with red-balloon cheeks, dallying through each step. it is a grave turn. they milk their charm and spend it on ghosts in make-up, loosen their teeth. a clean wind moves the leaves from side to side, the clucking of winter within.
our snapshots –
the photo booth
becomes a grave-marker