From the recording KING SALT
Sun-setter reads like a map,
Moth in a wind tunnel, hat
Not a halo.
Lump in her throat on the phone.
“They can’t make me!”
Paint in her veins, coloured bones are aching.
I wrote lists as a whisper crossed her lips.
She said “Fuck the destination; we’ve got tickets and a station, don’t we?”
Heavy truth. We both calmly crossed the room
She said “History’s a moot point now that I am here with you.
She makes decisions like a bonfire
And fills our house with coloured smoke.
I love her like a limb,
She gives back time to physics, hear you.