journal bit

soft soft soft as a ghost here at the land's swollen abdomen, dusk-kissed and flittered over by winds and birds.

and criss-crossed, criss-crossed by ghosty roos and madrigals, beating their way round needly trees that hold their lives apart,

in agreement with the sky that offers an almost nothing, rarely,

to the earth deciding and relinquishing its form.


here, dig here, dig here. a bird scratches for the thought of a wisp of dried root it can carry back to another life.

claw-prints, paw-prints scattering. quiet. dogs come to shit and stumble off. winds come to work on what is left.