I took the train home from the airport. It was the same journey as it had been earlier, except that now it was in reverse and I was alone, reflecting. The cloud was cold against the glass, a jet plane rose into the cumulus brew. I set my face, my ear really, against the window … Continue reading American Clouds & Greyhound Shapes.
Cromarty, Forth, Dogger, Tyne, toward these fields, we incline, a-settle & give rise, beneath the tumbled sheets of sea. We upstream. We breathe, we climb. We endeavour, we aspire to a sky beyond this ladder.
If all that remained on my screen was her filth, I would, at worst, still stand proud of a morn. And as fade became thrill, I'd sing the praises of bleach & the bleed of her film. If all that remained was the trace of her, the print or the stain of the milk … Continue reading If Whitman Sang Alabama.
