for chelsea stratford

richmond road moans at night, i promise,
but it’s still so dark:

do you remember when we lived behind captain george’s?
all you can eat seafood,

but i never ate there, i didn’t have
money.

that was a strange year,
like a suitcase full of old shoes,
packed tight and incoherent—spain, even:

do you know spain?

i am there again, i think,
only now it’s the cape:

it’s stef bos songs
(ek lag in ’n bed in ’n kamer
in kloofstraat),
because i am in love

with at least fifteen
or three hundred people—
shame, man.

richmond road is pretty by dusk;
you can see camp’s bay from high,
and the houses in bo-kaap glitter like

jewels, trees

like a storybook
cartoon.

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