how spiders make the most of our world as a strawberry red sky pours into one of the seven hills, the air is strung with the ghost wail of a bus at daybreak. lit with the white
owl for the morning whilst the twilight still sleeps in shivering dreams, the beat of wings flutters through the cold trees, branches at slumber. and you call from just beneath
family photograph it might never be better than this: the close shouldered assembly line smile, forced against a sea blue background. neither of you can work the camera.
how Richard Brautigan gave us the words for all the artificial voices in the world 1969 wrapped up as sounds. a last will and testament fifteen years too soon. smiling words,
let there be light inside the mole dark, shivered like a slim fit bandage of blackest crepe, the rooms sink, slithering smaller and nearer and damper and colder and closer and then