MY PASSPORT TAKES ME INWARDS. In this time of our plague, movement circumscribed, domestic stasis no longer voluntary, I invent ways of flying while nesting. My passport takes me inwards; I recall roads of my past, forever in transit – flight in amber.
In Bloemfontein, on the sidewalk in Winter Street on the way to school, there are tiny beige thorns that look like grass and grow flat against the ground. In winter the frost covers them, and cracks beneath your shoes as you walk. Near the top of that road my first girlfriend, aged seven, gave me a grown-up kiss, which tasted like oranges and sherbet.
Next to the main national road heading into the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, there is a large tree with leaves a shade…
