I’ve always felt that this morning ought to be a single word, like thistle. Thismorning. Thisevening, Thisafternoon and Thismorning. They could be three Norse brothers, the wild and ice-bred sons of Mother Night: Thismorning slips the sun from beneath his mother’s bed. She has told him not to touch it while she is out wandering in the world, but Thismorning is wily and willful, and...
i shed my coat my winter skin
for a year i became a snail and lived in wrinkled silence, wandering soft and helpless against all things sharp, hid from cold in the fragrant earth, loved rain when it washed away the sting of salt, and through summer, hermaphroditic and ageless, i wrote words on the world in slow and glistening lines
we live in flame and slowly we burn
the body-warmth of our bed it’s a cave warm without chill huddled together primal, and breathing our dreams that beat back the savage dawn
this is the hour that your mind turns too tired to be nimble with ideas but too much in love with the dark to sleep and so you conjure phantoms
This morning was the colour of wind.