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This pomegranate is still ripening. That pomegranate has gone rotten.

It is about how what happens changes the space you write while the snail leaves a trail on the finger of your glove.

In her split skirt she felt so essential she’d bear children men could mourn this cowgirl carrying a sour tune in her bucket….

The writing is meticulous but twisted in on itself, just like your love for one another.

Your pen will not leaven bread if the sun refuses to; its nib won’t pick the lock on the door of a widow’s bedroom.

When the light makes off what can you do but follow?

21.1.1990, Forth Street, Christchurch


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