How am I to sleep, when the nervous curtains keep flinching at every shift in daybreak that the witching hour takes, and tall grass makes the glare flicker and flare? Faint scraps of packing tape on the ferry shelter wait long past the need to keep adhering – these are the ghosts of party posters and missing animal notes I wrote to go with the bottles I keep finding and the salt stripped bones that line the coast, where tall grass makes the glare flicker and flare. Let brooding weather, looming low above the heather, break in shapes of webs and feathers and trawl flickering vignettes of supermarket signs, my best dress in the beverage aisle, and sprinklers synchronised on nightfall lawns. I want my body to slow in the punk show strobes – convulse to lightning pulses but know, any moment, I'll go, moth-eaten and dog-eared, home. Go, moth-eaten and dog-eared...
all rights reserved