Friday, April 2, 2010

London Letters-4

Dear London,

I like you for letting me be.
Without draining, without possessing.
To just letting me exist in a very inconsequential way.

Your streets and lights and highways are so new for me-untainted by any memory.
I wouldn't know of beginnings. But you are perfect for attempts at non memory.
Your corners don't smell of old bits of mouldy conversations.
Your pathways are not guilty of the memory of things which never happened.

You smell of nothingness. Only a place which isn't or can't be home, would ever be able to be some thing like you.



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