and there’s a conversation stuck in the back of your throat between black blue and undialating pupils you smile i
paper skies and hands that once held snow
eyelids open under bedsheets
so long as promise
faith
and the ceiling fan
stay on
alight like matchsticks
holy vine some call them landlines
escalating invasions of communication
and the toy gun you keep in your back pocket
and i watch you from the balcony cleaning the sill of your windows
golden rectangle of light framed by the ongoing overhead train
(thoughts from sitting on the floor of a crowded train carriage)
places, art and a trip to paris in late august
- @wolfgang_tillmans ‘Nothing could have Prepared Us’, at Centre Pompidou, June 2025
- Sleeping Hermaphrodite, @kyklada.press
