wine hair tickling my nosechapstick sweeteyes dry—did I even blink?streets smell like spirits & dior & someone suggesting peaches and strawberries as if that were new at bristolrain frets in the treesbirds click their little instrumentsokay, breathefresh-book sting up the sinusesmy eyes bounce—newton’s cradle—stop itring, turnpalm, clammy on the leather strapshoulders back—are you sure?—posters say…