a trophy, gold a mid-October sun, catches on the plastic bag held night-tight in your hand. the gold, of six litres of cider shines out, as you come first. upstairs cold water flat
flutter sitting here, my memory unpacks your smile. bright eyed i push an invite in light, to the cold glass of my window. their paper arrival is softer than i can hear;
mantras i have so many mantras for the morning, i’m having to get up earlier, and earlier. it’s all about positive thinking. i’m positive i am thinking too much.
two winged bugs connected by a sex act at first i thought it was shiny dirt, something caught by the sun round southwest of my hot coffee. so i brought my eyes closer,
today being Thursday today is a beautiful day. the sky is open like a book waiting to be written; with rather more gentle blue pages, than duck egg white. some of the leaves
