One fine day and the thread running through everything is pulled taut, all the patterns in perfect tessellation,
tin foil rock pools glinting in the high noon winter sun on the long descent to the beach,
the topographies of rocks under our feet, all the archipelagos of experience,
and the dog’s body a whole language of joy in the sacramental vitality of her movement.
Later, on the long train tracks that shudder and curve away, through the window, travelling backwards, pink clouds pillow themselves across the sky and buffer the chink in my voice that betrays at each departure,
each fraying of the long blue thread
One fine day and the thread running through everything is pulled taut, all the patterns in perfect tessellation,
tin foil rock pools glinting in the high noon winter sun on the long descent to the beach,
the topographies of rocks under our feet, all the archipelagos of experience,
and the dog’s body a whole language of joy in the sacramental vitality of her movement.
Later, on the long train tracks that shudder and curve away, through the window, travelling backwards, pink clouds pillow themselves across the sky and buffer the chink in my voice that betrays at each departure,
each fraying of the long blue thread
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