Ponsonby Road

Perhaps she knows I’m unsure

about whether to hug with two arms

or one. That it would be nice

 

to still talk about things – when I poured her

a cup of tea and said to wait a few minutes

for the leaves to infuse, she held out

 

a light palm: olive; and what we don’t remember –

the meanings of conversation, a different island,

the laptop screen carelessly open.

 

Leaning against a lamppost,

I watch her turn into the half-lit street.

The red bulbs of taxis glow in spaces

 

where the night has come to an end;

lines of well dressed twenty-somethings

shuffle on. I watch her go

 

down and down until she begins to flicker,

the road tied into her hair, until she

is small enough to hold in my fingers.