If no eye is watching, absent even from each perfect sparrow (such infinite isolation) then, especially then, we must gently cast our eyes, urgently focus our attention on each other. Weighted and untrammeled with time, sprawled on the beach of you, my blue shadows, greys always pooling around your blacks and whites, your crashing sea-scented waves. Your hands are on my hip bones again, hinging me forward, and my eyes surge back at you through…
Drowsily, I long for your sweet sedation, lust, yawning, for your soporific charms. I adore this blurry threshold moment, be gentle, go slow. Your waves come in hard, a relentless crash, inexorable, unyielding, narcotic. I drop for you, my dead weight cocooned and warm: this abandon, escape. You fill me, my coasting, surfing brain piercingly, ecstatically overflowing, people and places loved or unknown lives I can never revisit, joy, ecstasy, heartache, all night in these…
We are trees, roots interconnected. Our canopies reach out, touching. Spirals of attention, generous reciprocity draw us, whirlpools so futile and irresistible. Meanings, compass points, references indecipherable to one another. We talk on, translations countless, layers multiple, unbearable. Lacy palimpsest, how our branches tangle. – Tanya Fenkell
The storm arrived to play, to provoke the lake in earnest, after I set off on my swim. I felt it move from diamonds and gleam to graphite and raw edges. Weightless, tossed sideways over and again, and in my small irrelevance I stroke towards land, turn my breath away from the waves wanting in. Lake of refuge, reliability and impervious beauty, reminding me now of its unfathomable self, its ceaselessness. The thresholds I routinely…
The air is cooling, a torrent of nostalgia and hope, disconsolate breaths, echoes of sighs and whispers. Touch the velvet decadence of sumach, the curled, browned beauty of dessicated Queen Anne’s lace, the teasels and burrs in their sculptural perfection. Yellows appear, a million wistful browns, but also fiery reds, fervent burgundies, thick and saturated as garnets and wine. The skies observe impassively, so often colourless now in their lush showcase of greys. Spring gets…