Walking with Cristina on Burnt Oak High Street

As you crossed the road, without looking,

the cars stopped.  How could they not, as aspirations float and the wind too finds its path through trees, and between bricks, it must move, must be allowed to move, apparitions which carry gaps of breath, that space which contains you is sacred to them who appreciate their visions and hopes, for a step, a movement of contained extension draws sublimity in hearts coarsen to reality.  How could it not.

How could we not understand that in high streets also we must present, especially here,  present and please – recall that grandmother who upon understanding and seeing the greyness in my eyes displayed her treasured grandson, so that I too may know that we are un-redemptively connected, freely it is given and that we share, must share.

The drivers confessed more then love, they confessed to you, their eternal dream, my dream, our dream, of living and breathing somehow freely without dimness of conformity or enslavement in gender and class vocabularies – who better than you grocer understands beauty.  You who with tomatoes and coriander daily live know that ‘character reveals beyond the will’ – that it is not enough to judge by weight alone but to smell, and taste, and sense also and even then we will not know – they understand that wind moving through trees, altering, cleansing – doing more than can be understood, explained, contained – aimed for – must also be allowed to cross roads…


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