Solstice
What brittle, keening wind is this that stings our ears and dulls the fingers? The coachman of the foulest season whose kiss lingers on bloodless, frigid lips. We’ll soon be warmed by your celestial caress that will cause to pivot the great, grand chart that is infinity and space and all things vast and misunderstood.
The Orchid
Sunday, early evening, the light’s gone the colour of old paper, and next door they’re at it again, two animals ripping each other’s guts out with words first, then hands. I’m half-drunk, peering through the hedge like some pervert saint, blossoms hanging there purple, pink, blue—like nature’s running a whorehouse and nobody told me the