words & pictures
Dead awhile I wake, a windmill rust bittered creak hunted/hunting interminable, bright spilled between cloud shred and dinosaur frond fingers wrack side to side half morning gone the air too thin for summer’s leaf bent sighing
In the tin-can morning jagged-sunned safe, but for a raw edge behind the death-knell curtains I put on my floor trousers laying like a dog dust the colour of the moon sieves down I step raggedly through motes follow, worshipping There’s a myth that strength and vulnerability aren’t mutually exclusive From here you can almost see the willow by the bridge But (too bright) today I will just hallow the memory The shadow of the bed’s barred iron brow stretches narrowly and wide to keep me As if such creatures had enclosing wings Crumpling by the escarpment to the floor I do not dispute
