“three thousand year ago you swore / you could cut the night with your teeth / gnashing like a triumphant warrior / song bleeding through your parted lips / you swore you could not / touch the sky with two arms / but with only one / you hold gossamer threads / of love magic, centuries after…”

“Invisible thread to all but the mystics / And the mad: a passing golden light / The pulse rebirths the world itself – elements, eyelashes, egg yolk twilight…”

“The future often unspools slack upon dreamers, heavy intestinous ropes bound / for burial carry the illusion of momentum experienced on the road / A village of knots: / housed in cosy jacquard cards…”

“That love, god it wanted nothing from us / the way rain wants nothing from / objects it touches with rain / Remember how we listened down / to the small economies?…”

“The one melody / whose wave / weaves the warp to the weft of the tangible / A thread between threads / Smaller than light / Lighter than air…”

“help me remember / i was adored…”

“The air was sweet lemon tree perfume / As Nonno ate them like apples / And spat the seeds / Before pain existed…”

“Silence; gentle hiss beneath cries gull and driftwood bones; old green glass gentle in age rippling waves whales off the shore waining moon…”

“My Grandma used to make crocheted vests / for the big-bellied bottle trees up by the hospital…”

“There are impressions of me everywhere, traces of pentimenti across the canvas of my life and the life of the world that will remain once I’m gone. As the goanna leaves claw prints or broken sticks or trampled grass for the tracker to follow, parts of me are scattered in my wake – or thrown forward in my path as a future itinerary develops…”

“Grandad felt through chord progressions / Riffs remembered, learnt, forgotten, learnt again / He gave that to me / A language / Easier / Then words / A respite / Somewhere to put the crunchy, sticky pain, hilarity and absurdity / Without making a mess…”

“Lip bit in orgasmic elevation / And I feel no hesitation / To seduce your heart out / With my eyes radiating heat / And pussy dripping warmth / My heart whole and beating…”

“Sofia Coppola could trample me in those powder blue shoes from Marie Antoinette / And make my day / She’s the auteur architect of the gilded cage…”

“Wrapped in spider silk / Bathed in river water / Licked with flame / Our two threads encircled each other / In motions parallel…”

“Between my teeth I held that string, sucking on it on the bus, rolling it against my peeling lips and feeling at its fraying cotton edge with my tongue. At work, I waited for someone to point it out, to ask about the material growing from inside me, or at the very least try to pull it from my face like my mother used to do with the sleep in my eyes, but no one even glanced its way…”