The Book of Sightings

Never on the ground. Look where the trees stop and the sky starts.

Where the water smells of tar. He keeps to the shadow of the rail.

She is the smallest light in the room, and she moves.

Watch the still water at the edge of the lagoon, not the waves.

She waits beside doorways, working out whether to go through.

Near clocks. Always near clocks, and always leaving.

Wherever the brick road bends out of sight.

He stands in fields pretending to be furniture.

He hides where green hides best. Look at the trunks, not the path.

Low down, near anything sweet.

Where the briars are thickest and the grass is bent.

He drifts above the lamps, where nobody thinks to look.