paint the walls the colour of the sky
meeting land below the house
the sun is there
as are clouds and rain snow and sleet
versions interlocking
mindful of repeats

breath was caught
high and restless
dawning before waking
the trees are no longer there
and the swallows have no place
being as we are staring through time


Souterrain

I was just thinking—that is to say I have just plucked forth, from whence it came, through a series of incantation and 1970s special effects while trying to deal with archaic systems of payment—a filament etched on my retina but fading to the blue screen of death— exit—exit—keep moving throwing one foot forward. The thought, if we can still call it that, was born as all things are born. I am hungry. The clock is ticking. My feet feel damp. The scene changes. Cut to close up—still/murky/grey silt. Panning left slowly. Nothing. Continuous ebb. Birds call to each other and the wind. Still nothing. Still slow and expressionless. In the end a saxophone plays a short lament. The grey turns white ever slowly. The arcade games are switched off one by one and there are no refunds or do overs.