The forest comes down at night. She waits until the
      last tram has left, then sets off. She meets the
      drunks—with eyes half-shut they pass through
      her, they stumble but don’t curse. The forest
      walks steadily on. Like children at recess the
      houses scatter in twos and threes, tossing us,
      slippered and pajama’d, into the branches. Where
      are the streets? They’ve flowed away beneath the
      leaves and moss. The telephone wires, the
      whizzing of cars? Now they’re clogging only
      dreams. And the shopfronts? They’ve gone
      elsewhere in search of passersby.