you are mysteriously still there,  slipping in between the spring blossoms and the blades of cut grass and the glossy rain I watched from my window that spring in Belgrade. You are still lurking in the corners of loose park with the trees that never seem to shift. In all this movement there is stasis and the time folds on top of itself, the seasons casting their shadows as far back as I watch the sun fall through the branches and contemplating what that look on your face might have meant.

Its is looking for a sense of calm-constantly elusive.