& it's strange the way we write our histories as if time were running out of breath. The tram moves down the road like a river barge. The cold yellow autumn leaves choking the gutters. Shoes lined up on boxes and a girl with red lips and armfuls of mandarins. We sit at the window of the pub and watch the street. the lights clinging to the buildings and the blur of passing traffic in the dark. i tell you that i saw your face through the glass, as big as the city, you're eyes like stars on top of the arts centre spire. and you ask me to stay. and i tell you i can't.