on a hill somewhere strange
or perhaps a mountain top
made stranger by the
strangers
who are with me.

picking trails by phone-light
we all forgot our torches
and how they laugh
when i say torches
‘like an angry mob?
with pitchforks?’
in the dark they hear me laugh
(sheepishly)
but don’t see the blush.
‘flashlight, you know.’
‘oh we know, little kiwi;
now follow me.’

and we walk about
the precipice
and adrenaline feels
like the only thing keeping me up.
suddenly
i could have vertigo
but this is an adventure
and none of them have died yet.

no torches, perhaps
but there is a guitar
and a harmonica
to round things out
and they sing sea shanties
and i hum along
watching los angeles
at night