It was rather fun, being lost like this.
The roofs our floor, the palms our ventilators.
The stag’s antlers serving as a cloudrack.

North was south, being lost like this.
It was rather fun to thread the city
with only the sodium glow to steer by.

Fun to think we would never be found.
The alleys smelled of resin and leather.
The small square with its switched-off fountain

was carding the winds from east and west.
A soiled earl lay toppled from his plinth.
It was rather grim, being lost like this

but fun as well. Correctly we guessed
downhill should lead to the creaking docks
and docks would always overlook the sea.

Across the sea was another land.
And across that land was another sea,
though the sky was wrong for setting sail.

Still, it was fun of a sort to be lost like this.
The sardonic wildlife watching our steps.
No one to find, befriend or guide us.

No one to lend us a key or a chart
as the moon obscured itself with cloud
and the waves applauded the promenade.

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