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
a pause that isn’t a pause a man throws five coins into the wishing well. there is little grace, each throw an agitated arc. in silence, he makes five quick wishes,
the dying of the £1 wasp trapped within a cheap card shop, closed tight, for the night, a wasp nudges the window over, and over, and over, straining for first light. struggling
cat street these are the guards of my weekday mornings: soft hill beacons, paws neatly at rest. together like lips that have ceased speaking. arranged around my walk,