Witness
the birth of a new planet:
an amassing sphere of spiderlings,
packed like crushed coriander seeds,
quietly consolidating their dream of an
imperfect circle. Disturbed, they run, a broken
yolk, in all directions, plot a constellation, range
like a rash on the warm skin of the wall, before
amending, regrouping, adapting. Determinedly
rounding. Remembering again their unlike
pole. One world, for now,
mended.
Salt and the Raw Flesh of Fish by Laure Van Rensburg (Lucent Dreaming Issue 7)
She had done it again. Naked under her duvet, a man lay beside her; a new one she’d found at the pub last night. I
