Everywhere I look is a trigger for the same story.
There are more guns than people.
Many of the guns shot their owners.

Not as popular but with a certain charm:
I’ve also seen the bridges buckling
from the weight of those
whose long flight down
hardly made a splash.

But guns are always the partners of choice,
and unlike a fall into oblivion,
guns will remember you as fingerprints,
as a lasting touch.

I’ll leave these guns, these memorials then,
lying in the streets, vacant lots and empty rooms.
If only the fingerprints told their names, their stories.

If only I knew why my story is still being told.

The frog suffers from myopia but doesn’t know it,
for its brain holds little space for past memories.
And without memory it has no future, when future becomes past.
The frog’s bulging eyes peer out of a swamp
with a six inch radius of clear vision,
but beyond lies the rest of its blurry dank world.
Though the frog sits still most of its life,
stillness is invisible for its eyes can catch only motion—
the beat of a butterfly’s wing, the leg twitch of another frog.
A sitting frog is blind to its own pond-water reflection.

In our own way our sight is as finite as the frog’s six inches,
nanometers of visibility along a boundless chronology.
For we can’t recall the infinity before our birth
or foresee the eternity after our death.
Our pace is hectic. 
We view moments of stillness mostly as an unprofitable waste of time.
And dark matter permeates around us,
the dark matter that molds most of the universe,
that pulls galactic clusters apart  hurling them to the perimeter of existence.
In the matrix of shadows both frogs and humans share myopic visions 
while passing through dark matter like blinking fireflies.

I go to the sea again.
I take the things with me
that I was hoping to leave behind.
Inland.
I am not sure that I will ever be able to leave them
Somewhere else.

I sit on the bench in the park
as I sit there I can hear a woman singing.
I consider asking the man who sits next to me
whether he can hear the singing
But he does not want to talk.
Not to me.

I move towards the singing
as I get closer I hear two young girls talking.
She is such a girlie girl, one of them says to the other.
I am a girlie girl too, the other one replies.
But you know what I mean, she wears dresses. The first one says.

I find the opera singer
She is on a big stage in the park singing.
I sit on the fence and watch.
I watch her and the young ballet dancer
who dances around the stage while she sings.

The girly girl and her friend sit on the grass not far from me.
There is a big coloured hamper bag in front of me on the grass.
In front of that is a card with the contact details for the woman and her young friend.
I notice that the email address is her husband’s
and thoughts come into my head
before I can stop them.

The girly girl and her friend get up and leave
and I get up and drop a two quid coin into her coloured hamper bag
and give her,
her biggest tip of the day.