• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 01
Image by


I perfected it. The anchor under
tow, pointing poised to your soft
neck. Went from line to shaking
plane in search of any horizon’s
grace. The lighthouse at dawn.

                 Out the window and over the
                 score again, roasted chestnut
                 with mechanised coals. What
                 was the point again? Reaching
                 out to whose unbleached skies?
          Acid free, of course. Creases
          made to last. Shifting polarity
          left me unbalanced. Squatters
          by the palisades wouldn’t stop
          for any tide, not least this last.

     Where should I find you
     once the dust is clear?
     Suppose a city’s lungs
     from under construction
     breathe again sometime.