I.
Paint me a poem as lush and impossible as the evening sky from which it was spun.
— Sistine Chapel Skies

II.
Scorpio
hangs from the sky like a cobweb
— Scorpio

III.
… the gathering of myself
all ruffled edges and slippery cheesecloth
— September Aftertaste

IV.
The world hangs suspended upside down, wobbling once, before it dissolves and follows its neighbour’s trail down the glass.
— Metaphor

V.
They mutter ceaselessly back to me my own astonishment and bewilderment.
— In the Absence of Utterable Speech

VI.
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:

VII.
… 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