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,
strangers sailing through a breakfast sea the pale rooms are no doubt identical, the crisped breakfasts are served, identical. each coffee, poured from the same secret urn
can dead technology produce flowers? i get through laptops like cars: cheap, acquired secondhand, routes to places known and unknown. both tend to die when i least expect it.