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  • We're in, we're out, we're always walking down the lanes and the alleys.

    We're carousing, we're lonely for each other, we're in the blues, we're elevated by simply a short espresso with a kiss of frothing.

    We're forthcoming, we're shy, we're abandoned in the city, we're always walking down the alleys and the lanes. Scrabbled, painted, in one simple graffito someone paints a focal fractal of us in a scrawl.

    We're wailing, we're solaced, we're smiling for no good godamn reasoning; but love finds us.

    We go AWOL, where were we?

    Here all the time. Walking and walking and dreaming, little word warrior girl in the lanes and the alleys.

    Never saw it before, but there it is, old wood the colour of sunshine; tropical sunshine in the autumn city. What lies inside the rusted lock? Bodies, stuff, junk, clobber? Just the every day mystery, of angels and evils down the lanes and emerging from the alleys.

    Just another kind of garden: garages, jerry-rigged tin roofs, wild pollen, the alley curves, patinas, there are new ways ahead. Walking in past lock and key.

    (Photo by Susan, Toronto, August 2015)
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