He says he has to fill more sketchbooks, these retro
diaries of his mind. Within the mobiles (are there 300?)
I hear the faint buzz of silhouette interaction, I sense him
at work, suspending these fleeting, imaginary folk
reduced to pure line, I feel them through their day.
They move, they cast their shadows. Melancholy slides
into the changing gaps between them. I’ve seen
this crowd before on the slope of the Arndale,
waiting for trams outside the Arena, checking in
at Terminal 2. Lowri’s people. David catches contours,
dines on dimension. He outlines these lives, contains
their presence in this cream-walled Salford space
too briefly. He’ll have to let them go home soon.