under the jacaranda there are circles of light, circles of lavender and cupped up hands, circles that drift under the wheels of the cars. this is a familiar city, that i have forgotten or am forgetting. one that i am choosing to forget. like the oldest things i rememeber, they are not so real to me anymore, they are things i have imagined and remembered imagining, things that are not memory but the dream of it. it is all of these things and the shape that they take, the way they are no more or less real now than they have ever been. and it is the same; the eucalyptus at the window, the breath of the wind. the rusty hinge of the back shed door, my fathers' dragging feet. the small little grunting noises my mother makes as she cleans, and the other ones she makes in indecision after drinking.