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Forecast

Seven days were not enough. The world was available but all you need is the small town in which you live. Each day has the same space. Numbers fluctuate slyly, unsure, by the fourteenth, if the future is a better place than here. You can type in any town you can spell. Enter and you will know, maybe, the colour of the sky and the temperature of the cleaner air. Look again, matching the image for this hour with what appears between the walls. Thin margin of indeterminate shade. Instead, across the street, the bright interrogation of what? A crowded obscene. Last-minute check in the departure lounge, hands all over each other. Don't go, you can say, give it an hour. The colour of the sky will alter.

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