Living on an island and the fog comes in like a wet cloak and the people walk ever on an edge. Reality is flexible as the tide and you never know which morning you will wake up in. Do you hear the sleeping bodies? The sleeping animals? No matter what they get up to during the day, they are now in onion-smelling caves. Cordial breezes, teevee antenna and undershirt smells. The entire sky presses in, like a breast over buildings of belch. Sky-time-mother blots, blows, makes stillness after swoon.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Nov 2014 03:40:25 +0000
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