Silent Wash
It’s a direct drive of fifty litres
From me to you.
Six hundred miles north
Until I’m resting my eyes on your face:
That soothing easy care
From the dial and touch
Of your features
The mixed fabric of your voice
Trickling through my cells.
I am freestanding
But will bloom
When you enter the room.
Until then,
I’m in this intensive
...
Monday 21st November 2022 8:49 pm
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