dark water behind the dam pillaged land afore.

your collecting bowl snags every lost particle.

inside there is a party howling at the moon.

first thing is to sing. then open a pack of coloured pencils.

potato. just that. white, lumpen, turgid, dependable. and in hestia's hearth sweet earth.

the ground you stand on cuts from under you. brittle shells the last to go.

walls have sheltered me, each room written over as i walk to the next.

next to me, the space is alive. possibility is calling with encounters from across time.

the shadow-side of invention.

you can turn both ways, open or close, in the turning we live in motion.

at the breaking point i turned, part metamorphosing into something untouchable, part trapped beneath.

the sleight of hand, the white handkerchief, the white bird over the blue sea.

teach me to listen past your sentence. teach me to hold your severance. teach me the world from your window.

we still hold hands, your promise and my fear keeps us on the line.

i open windows, forge gaps in the moving parts to call, anyone there? the house becomes perforated by the night.

some of us are better scavengers than others, but we are all primed for a glint of silver.

gauge the feel of the space, is it in balance? safe enough? light enough? is there chance for growth?

ransack the cupboards, dig through the paperwork, patterns form from accumulation.

we foster nightmares. with ingenuity.

often i stand at the brink of empty, craving someone's validation, please rest your hand on my head, and mark my growth with a firm line.