in arid cities we have read as syntax flooded streets
while the light falls, heavy as the shadow of a hoop;
in darkness we are left as the shadows of our meat
and our lives drift in, and out, in perpetual loop.
paraphrased stet Melways 2B – unshakespearean but will’d most cheerfully
as she walks across the the torn squares of the map
eating the remainder as she strives to keep the site secret
even from her self
as a thought unadmitted to consciousness, lest the thought result
in self fulfillment, she regains the frayed edges of her purpose into a
          tormented bouquet; tormentil and orange blossom would not reek so
          well as flowers picked from woodland sun pied where strayed from the path.
Cairn not for the unrepentant appetite, I remain lost in the floods
grasping at the rhimed slicked canyoned walls, travelogued by her desire.
her roaming, relentless, restless, dancing, bruised and bleeding weary feet
          pound the streets with the rhythm of her heart beat
as if she was really Jesus
on a tiny trip. Must leave
the urge to die in unchartered
hope –
	itself a collaboration of demons –
	that swims away, clothes left on the shore, 1 sock eternally missing, 1
                clock eternally ticking
	away away away we go on the wave, in the wave, of the wave
	little fishes taught to feed opportunistically
while the film of the world swims at our eyes
and burns
and lies, like a lullaby
assiduously arranging
the photographs of possible locations for use in a number of scenes,
        as yet unimagined by a sleeping committee of directors
bottom feeders all
        their limited perspective
        undiminished