Voices rise and fall in the centre of the square stop, break see your breath pause in the crosshairs of the call to prayer.
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I focus on the itch until it goes away or gets worse.
Thumbnail: Kate Doyle. Bad Nora. 2012.
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My blood runs in the forest in the suburbs on the farm. It ties me to truth stabs holes in my echo chamber but has started to form metallic droplets.
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Wine is free and your head begins to spin even though you should be working but let’s write and drink let’s turn the letters red to match our teeth.
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“This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or the tranquilizing drug of gradualism.”
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The men you fall for in Florence aren't yours; you pay for the privilege. Pay to see them, let them lead you through the streets to their thrones.
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Climb the stairs find the lights keep walking it’s just the night and you’re always up for a wander.
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See space between storm heads and sea as you leave, watch languid seasons fade into worlds of shoulders clothed in scarves and hat covered hair.
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Think of breathing; think where sounds are made where tongue hits teeth, infant noises. I roll the tongue and throw letters to the back of my throat with enthusiasm.
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November 9th will be grudging toasts to a battle ahead or whiskey-fueled regression to mourning.
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Running the gauntlet of homesickness every vegetable comes from red earth, the haze over the city strange from ground-level. The word for fog is learned in doodled golden bridges.
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They say there's no history, no soul. They speak of sand, breathe stale air, build grandiose testaments to its roses instead.
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The pack has pantsuits, collared shirts and sunburn under makeup and headscarves.
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My eyes drift toward each other, posture deteriorates and I’m unable to stop. There's ink in my blood.
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To my soul, my conscience, how fantastic you’re not here.
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