• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 12
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Of course, you say, as we stand
at the counter of Bar Obvious
waiting for our coffees day after day

This meeting place is indistinct
as if you could scratch through the sky
to see the blurred edges between teal and ruby

The texture of absence, of air on metal, it's trust
it's like us
to try to trip the cosmic order

to skip away and wake with the key in our hands
to row home across the bay
before the sun rises

And that's what I want to know: how to traverse
the damn line between the visible and invisible
where colours morph: bright yet grey

Although you don't say much when we are here
I only need a word, an image
to bring it all back again

Threaded on a wire
curled around a hand as
a telephone cord



I hold the communication
that ancient technology
here just for a spell

a form quiet moment

suspended there, yes there, just over there—