Sir, a report of a stone, Sir, I found down at the creek, brushed with water like egg brushes pastry, dotted and spotted in drips and drabs, half-dry, half-cold. Sir, the stone was pebble-grey, warm,
To take us to the sky, We study the celluloid film, The oscillograph paper enfolded in our hands, The numbers are reduced again. Reels of paper pool at our feet, It requires careful observation, All t
Sat in eerie silence, the kind that suspends, borrowing grief from the future. Reaching through with sticky hands, to steal something I can call mine. In the same way, a sweet friend took the floor
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