The ring-billed gulls descending over the low tide slant of shingle toward dark mudflats
are a litter of dirty-white scrap paper scrawled with derivatives measuring the changes of
functions in differential equations.
Across the harbour the calculus continues; considers a haze over the low hills the West
River leaks through and the trout twisting under its slow-motion surface, the frills and
undulations of their gills.
It lazes in the syntax that composes the sequencing of legs in the late-night fox’s trot
through backyards and cemeteries and translates the scents lingering under sheds, on tree bark and gravestones.
Listen in the night and you’ll hear it in the whistle of breath through nostrils, in the wheeze
of the lungs’ bellows when the candle of romance has burnt down to its base of skin on skin.
A slow friction ignites everything.