a bit more than a year on

and i am pounding the pavement
looking for worms. all the cars round here
got bigger when i left—louder too
and brighter, those hateful LEDs
like shouts directly into the ear,
like colonising white men
out of the dark. i have counted:
             two white cats
             five ring cameras
             six people
who put their head down and walked
faster when they saw me.
here is the cradle of all
that has propelled me, like a seed
from a tree, the inevitable grace
of gravity.
i can't write about anything, really
apart from here.