P1, who was he? Dependent on parents he had to puzzle out. P2 in the sandpit under the nellie kelly. Philip is one of the f-Ps, imagining Greeks training horses, rode them numberless miles on campaign. But I am not the P you put on me. That P is gone as September 2001, hard to place as that person cycling down adolescent Warrigal Road. That P you would objectify, sum up or divide out. They say we are twenty-five people at any one time: P reading Proust, P talking to staff, P on tram stops, P invisible even to self.