The sand alley, a sign, entrance to the other time, inner courtyard, 1 person at the counter, the post office of Baghdad, almost a Far West or Ur Little Middle East, faded, left & lost, years ago the letter with postmarked stamps, on the way, still and just.

Just one cigareta – and we‘ll think up blissfull moments beside the water, on shores that become embers: in words, on sores, sometimes a wave; another toke – cos we glow out & into the distance of the doubled seasons: what once – when once, we now never say not. After all the voice sounds…