Paint me a poem as lush and impossible as the evening sky from which it was spun.
— Sistine Chapel Skies
hangs from the sky like a cobweb
… the gathering of myself
all ruffled edges and slippery cheesecloth
— September Aftertaste
The world hangs suspended upside down, wobbling once, before it dissolves and follows its neighbour’s trail down the glass.
They mutter ceaselessly back to me my own astonishment and bewilderment.
— In the Absence of Utterable Speech
Buses and cars hum and splash as they momentarily enter and exit my awareness of this spun and grey hung evening.
— These are the kinds of things that can barely be dreamt up:
… the rustle of paper awakens an unnameable longing
The corner of a page lifts in an invisible wind, then falls again back into place, like the broken wing of a bird, a bird for whom flight remains but a dream.
— Field notes