Or Rejecting Trajectory
Let the night leak in, and distant fog from lamp’s yellow gaze... chemical smoke, and history, green the dark. Maybe cold can save me from drowning among blood-warmed black drapes, whisperless and listing. Far-off, like wishes, my bones walk in moon grit and the echoed twittering of disturbed birds. I’m still wondering how I got here, like every comet, looking back at its brushed-light tail.
I love this, especially the title!
Your chapbook arrived yesterday from Gininderra press. I was going to read it a bit at a time, but started this afternoon and found myself reading all of it. It’s brilliant Worms! ❤
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Thank you, Kate and thank you such for buying it! I am touched!!
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So many wonderful lines and images in here Worms but these are my favourites: “the echoed twittering of disturbed birds.” & ”
from drowning
among blood-warmed
black drapes,” 👏👏❤️❤️👌👌
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Thanks Ken. ❣️
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You’re welcome indeed! 👍😁
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Yes, a comet’s tail. I rather like that idea.
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Thanks, Misky. Writing in a haze of tiredness.
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“my bones walk in moon grit” is a fantastic line. I love the last stanza. Well done!
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Thanks Bob
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