Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
The thing that is believed is a reality.
We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
The future happens. No matter how much we scream.
I read; I travel; I become