balling between the sky and the tree, amassing a crick-craw dark, in brinkmanship with the days end.

drawing without design, pleasure beyond words.

you shouldered stone, took the dull morning by surprise with your sheen and glory.

things brew in their own time.

if you vent excess bile, where does it go?

earnest in pursuit of the task, putting blind worth to the work, don't look for the tap on the shoulder, 'good enough' is our borderline. .

untether yourself and walk out to find the winter sun.

magic held in the last creases, don't give up wishing.

lend me your reflection of a blue sky and a still world.

trust your ear to the machine, who knows what the hill amplifies in its echo chamber.

what worm took the heart wood, when the young world was dreaming.

cabbage to cup, no mere sod, a yellow flower for our theory of mind.

dip into the water. terminus of one world, door to another.

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.