One Hundred and Fourteen.


Izzy circle


grains of sand and a face full of sun
wind whistling along the softer lines of you
that wind is getting cheeky with its caresses
but you sway into it, you don’t even mind
something about the silk of skin in air
fuckable and erotic without being seen
or touched or looked at or undone
just you and the wind and the sun


Sarah circle


2 am outside the window.
2 am inside, too, though I am cocooned in wool for my torso and toilet paper for my nose.
I am thinking about Anzac Day. About the wars and the nonsense of them.
And outside the window a siren looms through the darkness. I wonder idly whether it is a bomb siren, and while my brain catches up to my thoughts, I shudder.
I imagine the women and children and wrinkled old people tucked in their chairs, waiting for the drones to start.
I imagine the dogs skittering across tiled floors, whimpering.



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