Here be monsters

You map me this city
propelling me, hand under elbow, through new corners, tiled walkways,
dust echoing tunnels
presenting me with unknown paths of desire
which delight us both.

Disseminating your historiography in winding flanêur routes
as you narrate your love of
the lost space,
the anarchist's house,
the corner of a house surviving demolition's desire,
the place where the clock was made,
the filled in bombsite,
the place whose name's been eroded by lost knowledge,
it's inhabitants having forgotten where they live,

This affair is to be transcribed on this city,
a narrative of our lost and found spaces ghosted on
all the other maps this city carries.
Its topography mapped inside me as something to do with us,
A tube map whose stations are where we kissed.
The canal routes as places we threw stones.
A three dimensional layer stretching from your eastern ivy-encrusted studio
to the windy corner where herons of the western sky,
stand gazing at carp I once procured.
The dark mysterious unwritten places, open up under our scribing
losing filigree of monochrome, regaining colour under our
scratchings.

We vie for knowledge of transport, speed, resonance and air
as much as we vie for urgency in the dark.
Sometimes I win the fastest route.
Sometimes you.