I don’t recognize the city, its stony antennae.
Chance is trapped in dazzling streets,
among blinding windows bursting
in colourful visions preventing us from sighing at the stars at night.
There we lay, stunned in a black room
overlapping with bright smiles.
(past) & there’s beauty, barely hidden,
like in the curved landscape, by
a last train’s last window.
Somewhere, the yellow light falls
on the countryside & slowly
eats the grass in a toothless shadow.
Nature burns every tomorrow,
just like that, indifferent,
reaching eventually a time
these words won’t. thoughts
(Present) will melt in the air, pierced by the yellow light
falling still on the countryside.
& now I see you by the humid
half-open bathroom door drooling, sweeping your feet like a ballerina,
wandering in the haze of Don Giovani
& feel jealous & feel lucky.
I have to go;
my broken is heart,
où qu’il (fût
ure).
This is where we meet by Sorcha Sheehy Williams (Lucent Dreaming Issue 8)
I was prepared to feel alone, expected the government-mandated 2-metre gap to yawn between us, cold and hostile. I expected these new spaces to be
