This suburb shuffles around me. It's residents making for the centre. I walk with them, at their pace. It's hot. Arms by their sides, palms out, gazing somewhere off camera. Dress; ultra casual. No bonjours. Silence. A town on medication. Bread shop, the cut-down supermarket, swipe card, home.
Mr Gursky would be proud of the image, the immortal Yukio of your poetry. Only a pedant would question your abuse of the apostrophe :) x
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