Still here, still kicking, toes treading waves. I expected the waters to rise this month but never expected the flood.
New works coming soon, new things getting made, new paths being carved from rock.
A SMALL TUMBLE FOR LOVERS
And hands all through your nest of hair
caught brambles, blackberry fingers
thorns of teeth marking the narrow flesh
grit of calcium as taut tight to thread the needle
sand-scraped: we move, move move
wind in branches, limbs on windows
turning, turning, into the lighting sky