Li Yann Li Bret, Geoff Sawers, [2023:41]

Green rag flags flitter in a salt-sour wind. This was a lift shaft once, but now it opens only to the clouds. Rain settles gently, diluting the briny puddles. The old man snoozes at his writing desk, his boots a crust of barnacles. A pair of terns nesting in his hair and a cloud of words in the mizzly air. “Li Yann Li Bret”—it doesn’t mean anything. But these words are a path, a boardwalk. I try to ask the old man his name, I squelch into a damp armchair to read whatever it is he has written, each word turning to long blue streaks of ink down the page as he writes.

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