TUESDAY 8
All buses should be
like the 50, someone says,
leaving the 50.
WEDNESDAY 9
We tie charms from string,
berries, leaves, words, onto the
stick, burn them, drink tea.
THURSDAY 10
I spray scent in the
air, rose, jasmine, but I can’t
smell any of it.
FRIDAY 11
Rainwater lapping,
eddying, at the crossroads,
round the traffic lights.
SATURDAY 12
In the workshop they
write about the senses but
I still smell nothing.
SUNDAY 13
No double dipping,
the lady offering samples
of cooked apples warns.
MONDAY 14
The fuchsia, red and
purple is still bright as at
the height of summer.
Seventeen 