A nocturnal meditation on guilt and charity in Oxford’s winter hush. The poem follows a speaker wandering Little Clarendon Street, caught between pity and self-reproach, where an act of giving becomes a reckoning with solitude, privilege, and the limits of goodness.

"This piece focuses on the realization that I can no longer ask my grandmother, who has dementia, about the details of her life when she was younger; it's a reflection on memories being lost within a person."

"Redemption isn't in two crossed pieces of lumber; it's in the living leaves."

Fib, cue, xyz, both individually and as a combination of imageries, tells about how we or our senses are expanded into the unseen dimensions of the seen.