Tectonics. Eyes and fault lines: motion rafted by the current between waking and sleeping. A desperate rendering of lust, and ambitions, and other things, things called out in the night to be released from, things one couldn’t put their name to – only sweat, and the squeak of molar against molar, and a headache in the morning, and a heart and stomach married together. Once you thought you’d never…. I laid down my head wanting…. but it was pre-dawn, and not so brave.
Above the gasping sod, having dripped the last of its mirrors, and having unshadowed each blade, dandelions turn up their heads for the sun. Curtains on the floor. No dust from the bed. Twice the night rolled in before suspending itself in a red sky to dry.