Chad, an aspiring author, sank into his easy chair and drifted into a
reverie.

Writing is both a way of making life more liveable and of making ourselves more whole. Words have a being-ness: when we write poetry, we tap into a network of resonances.

I am all hair, glittering with diamond-glass. A forehead streaked with blood, rubies and roses crisscrossing the tangerine flaps of a ripped collar.

The darkening sky skids past at sixty miles an hour. My eyes are keeping a vigil over the dead fringes of tarmac either side of the road as I drive . . .

lightning flashes
everyone stands
still

end-of-day catch
our wicker basket full
of salmon sunset

With every book I sell, with every piece of clothing I give away . . .

how do I begin?

The Universe dreamed I’d come to its restaurant. I needed to pass the time before my train home.