Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Seven.


Izzy circle


watch as the rain slowly paints the road
from dusty grey to melting, slick and black
slide eyes along it like snakes like streams
like the underside of a soft palm,
hold the air to you like its breath
might be able to soothe your flailing chest
lick the gum leaves like a lover’s tongue
grip fistfuls of dirt like swollen sheets


Sarah circle


The fog doesn’t fuck around up here. Falls on the road like a heap of dirt, cuts out everything between here and here, so you drive at a crawl and watch ghostly trees and rubbish bins loom out of the mist. The birds all go quiet. The people crowd at the windows of the bakeries and bars and stare at the world all gone.



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