this goes with
a piece
called
It has seldom rained

rārō pluit
&i am asleep in the vineyard:
it was laughter which tumbled down from the wild hills of europa
that made the bend in my bones.
i knew who it was,
but he was dead now,
long, long dead.
it buckled my knees, i couldn't fucking believe it.

there, at the edge of the world, i lost my step
and wept the night into the morning. i was not prepared then.
in this instance there is no filling the void that has diluted my years into slow, burning seconds
during each of which i am
unbirthed identidem:
surely there is something better than this,
this uncertainty lurking at the corner of every street like a secret no one can tell,
because it is the saddest, emptiest thought in the universe.

there are wolves at the door i cannot close:
je pense au serpent sur ma poitrine
qui mange mon cœur
qui vole l'haleine de les poumons
et je ne sais que rien ne peut arrêter la chasse, la chasse.


typewritten text
iron-on transfer
lace
ink (pen and india)
tiny fibers
little red dots
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