Jasus lalandii
n the thin dawn, a stained curtain teases its hem across my lips. A gust of wind catches the hem and flicks away sleep, out through the window to the busy street below. I am on the floor of a stranger’s lounge. Beside my head is a shoe print on a pizza slice; cigarette ends rise crooked from the cheese and salute the day’s first thought: I think I should probably leave this
