Natalie Rose Dyer

Wolf Blooms

The morning is a thought field ignited by bird lark; a river of cerebration. I contemplate horse skins of light––the marigold sun through a prism of glass. One child emerges, then another. Their soporific faces reveal a discernment. I take …

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Order of Birds

First are Kookaburras tipping sun into a saucer of algid earth, into ghostly looms of morning, slipping a cure into our sleeping mouths. The dream world thrashes out scenarios of human desire, subjugation, subsides to the libertarian musings of birds …

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Dressing for Paradise

I remember that time I held my mother’s hand led her across the parkland temporarily blinded, her infected conjunctiva spindly red; burst open veins squirrelled about her white opal hemisphere or sclera, her iris brown green with a lint of …

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