there is the hope that the wind will hold. on the bus, stiff necks craning, oranged windows framing the sky. thick pigeons squat unceremoniously, my legs numb from the climb. a brokenhut in chrome, this is the picture to send back. falling in line, i pay a first world amount for a third world desire. […]
there is the hope that the wind will hold. on the bus, stiff necks craning, oranged windows framing the sky. thick pigeons squat unceremoniously, my legs numb from the climb.
a brokenhut in chrome, this is the picture to send back. falling in line, i pay a first world amount for a third world desire. a wrinkle on the face of this sky, the sudden rush of clouds. ashen hill fades further to the right, a cocktail of memories, fond and stark, the line drawings of a country chapel that pretend to be austere. a kind new to these old eyes. i dreamt of this chapel as a child in convent, i imagined the pinings one must feel in the heart for oppressive brick forms.
inside this ruddy, this flesh-eating odour of august, a sermon takes the violent shape of deliverance. a garden of thorns distemper the taste of chaste. i rest myself against the outrage of no magic as a shape takes the form of a rabbit amidst the green.
we don’t write about the
heat. we cast our nets for
bigger fish, spend the night under the leaking hide of
a giant turtle. we feel it stir.
