How will you spin fermented want into a poem? Doesn’t
ugliness propagate inside a clever turn of phrase? How can
you return to the place where it all began to go wrong? Don’t
understanding and awkwardness have different half-lives?
Can you imagine holding the sea to account? As if the waves
have learnt to settle scores with the daytime moon? The
unanswered grumble, one within the other, touching,
scratching, screaming: Where the hem of the sky brushes
the water, what is wet? That cloud, that cloud, that masks
the sun now, what was it hiding before? When desire burns
itself into longing, when waiting for nothing is still waiting,
how long does night walk before what walks is morning?