The Equator
1
Coming home on the bus in winter the wipers arc whootu whootu whootu whootu The passengers smell like old potatoes. I crack open the front door abandon an umbrella shake off the day.
2
White envelopes rest on the table like doves.
3
In a letter from an aunt I have just invented she writes that it is humid where she lives on the line. Colourful birds fly through her rooms leaving feathers behind. My aunt stuffs them inside pillows. She has been sleeping well, lately. The sound of the birds’ wings (writes my educated aunt) is a susurration whootu whootu whootu whootu
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