Between the faded font

    a kaleidoscope of colours

    mingle and blend

    on warm concrete.

    Plaster paste, mortar, glue

    street decoupage.


    Crouched low, she works her hand.

    The can rocks and hisses,

    its mist covers the faded red bricks.

    Toots! Sup?

    Alfresco art — a new tag line.


    On round windows,

    bird shit

    piled like termite mounds;

    her laneway, her canvas.

    Plastic bags float and dance;

    they rustle.

    Coffee cups, fallen leaves —

    The Viet Times, page twenty-five:

    Furniture going cheap.


    The Guerrilla fresco soars above.

    Her hands grapple the red brick.

    Barefooted, she reaches

    higher, higher — heaven beyond her fingertips.


    He follows behind.

    Not swimming; not flying.


    upwards and over,

    like the plastic bags,

    the leaves, the coffee cups.


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