Struggling beneath the weight of a large concrete sombrero
I blend into the crowd.
He makes his way through a bazaar, buying incense,
artisan bread, an immersion heater,
a list that sings with semiotics.
I am writing so fast my pencil breaks.
Near the chancery, he unscrews a jar
and pours crickets into the cupped hands
of children, who run round the square,
plashing them into their faces
and shrieking with delight
until the clock strikes three
and the shelling begins.
I lose him somewhere amongst the shrapnel.
The clock detonates.
Crickets chirrup their approval.
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