Mortal:Drift

By and | 1 December 2013
IV


Blue skies bely
a home’s rot, dot
joining dot;

the spin cycle
stops. You’re done at 0.09.
Go. On.

The stories say.
Like this: the accident
you choose.

Light and rush. Explosive birth.
De-constitution.
Elsewhere,

we’re sleeping in. A curtain’s glow.
I get water.
You pull me back.

You’re the best thing.

 
A womans scorn

A womans scorn | Fiona White | Oil on linen | 198cm x125cm





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