Sunday, 16 December 2012


we were well wrapped up against the cold, the blues & soft purples of distance whispering alongside our shoulders

such that it made allegories of us all

only a telephone call away

in the gaps between light & clarity tiny birds built their nests

all writing had become a parallel for writing, as gymnastics is to candle wax

necessary to break down the door with a sledgehammer

later in the year outlines hardened

for several months all that was heard was the sound of moths beating their fists against metal doors

gradually the pigment flaked from our mouths

eventually the metal doors caved in

in every doorway police crouched like leviathans on stilts

the tiny birds deserted their nests

distance became a matter of the manipulation of pre-recorded lives

we’d lost our good warm clothes & wandered naked among indifferent citizenry

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