I wish I could write
stepping into the weekend over
school’s threshold with
Scar Tissue’s pining guitar lining
the lonely Sha Tin mountain view
into words. It is a feeling.
It is the feeling of not giving in.
It is the feeling of summer dying.
It is collapsing.
It is re-seeing
the settled gold of four-thirty on the
harbour sides. It is a bottle of wine,
liquidly promising that
will feel fine. It is flexing my spine
to the twist of a key
in my lock.