Summer weaves its limbs through the gaps of the dead magnolia. Contact is made with a tendril, lacing up to scale a wall. Outlines of a sky cracked open by branches, pressing static into colourless forms. The shared nature of vision teaches us less about experience and more about power.
Sinking down glossy liquids to an abundance of long gazes. A mirage, or a prediction of what comes after the event. Listen to the hours hovering over these architectures. The backdrop of suburbia is oppressive when heat rises.
Keep forgetting the word to describe the feeling that occurs when meaning is effaced in the process of articulation. As in, speech is tilting again. Something about cruelty, falling into arcs of delicate pauses. Notice again: that the air is sticky with the residues of the past.
I find myself dwelling in the shapes of history, memorising the edges that we have come to understand as movement. The light is porous with humidity, driving down highways unspooling themselves, no longer stitched together by signs.
In the spaces between substance and suggestion, I ask you: What kind of image remains, without sight?
There is a structure to giving that is indistinct from labour. There is a structure to light that is indistinct from collision. When sleep slants through the walls, I tentatively care for the imprints that do not stay.
There is a clarity located in objects, and it is in this that I find comfort.
Mimic the limits of a soluble blue. Observe how a body folds when it comes into contact with another’s. Circle the enclosures of a referent, speak around these chasms.
To reach for language as a relation, where words do not always name, but function or obliterate.
I lined this city with implications, so that I could ask you: what forms of erasure allow for luminosity, instead of dissolution?