you sitting in the mouth of the caravan with Italian coffee speckling your shirt cuffs and your eyes aging with the sky. you with the Dylan Thomas edition (1934) with your greatcoat with my heart shi...
I want to take the lines of your palm, every single one of them, and weave them around my wrists. Tragedy looms like a tilted bookcase (I’ve shelved every shipwreck and every flutter). You cannot wri...
tightening our lace collars to stop ourselves from feeling. maybe it would be quite nice to have to you trace Andromeda and Ursa Major in the curve of my collarbone, though wed have to negotiate on p...
they burnt the last map; where is she, please? we all go through our labyrinths with a half-ounce of wool to peg to corners, second-guessing and trying to cut roses and put them in glass ja...
Eva had grown fond of bee-keeping in the garden, and buried the old accordion there last December when the honeycomb froze over. That winter, there was never any moonlight, and shipwrecks mixed with ...
And then he took the evening from the seam of his greatcoat pocket, and mixed it with the contents of after-dawn, pouring all onto a torn page (e.e.cummings.) He rolled the strip up with his nimble f...
in a mood for decay; breaking down mountain peaks and the Bodleian library in my head. Everest is terribly hard to dig your way out of, especially when youre lying on the ocean floor with a guide for...
(light-keeping, part i) Its strange, really, because weve been rowing and dabbling our fingers in the water and balancing Scrabble tiles on that delicate half-place under your eyelashes which is like...
this summer has been polka-dotted blouses that wrinkle like butterflies, with Nabokov volumes and To the Lighthouse, a Novel rustling against the grass whilst the sun whispers into my bones...
the tights were laddered, the quiet voice tangled in a hazel-tree, plaits stuck together with dew and remembrance (the harshest mélange) and your freckled arms stained with star-currant juice; a viol...
trying to curl commas around my fingers when the brass ring shattered and left the soul unclasped. tearing brackets from the collars of star-spilt paragraphs (buttons clatter) and...
Tearing silk shadows from the halls of empty museums, and using them to make hammocks for sweet-butter mornings. You are blind - and I trace a bird of melancholy on your eyelids. But the lashes ...
Sylvia balanced paper crowns on the edges of honey-crumb fingers and toasted my poetry on a taffeta fire. You named my typewriter Cassiopeia because music notes emerge from the hearts of constellatio...
(all the pictures belong to me. :) Sorry dears, no time to write at present, head in such a flurry of rustling wings and paper and such, scrambling amongst ink and violets. For present, click here to...
a little snippet of my reading voice for you: http://hermessybraids.tumblr.c om/post/4290962605/this-is-me- reading-a-poem-about-falling-i n-love
our smiles held together with peach syrup. whispering the wool out of charlottes cardigan to knit their bedtime stories with. monsters arent under the bed; they shiver in jam jars and hollowed acorns...
Its my birthday today. Sixteen years old. I was awoken with a posy of kisses, green trayful of sugared tea and blackberry tarts; oh, and a little paper dove. Ive hung it on the window and its confett...
it is over. the hares chased Summer away. in the Company of Melancholy Ltd., women spooned raspberry jam into melting teacups and discussed the future of supernovae; a tragic irony, of course. they l...
what labyrinthine hearts we weave on the cobblestones. piles of keats and cummings that fill the misty corners, in between half-hours of toast crumbs and lilting wool. her hair was red under the...
Hello. Im very scared and very small, and Id quite like somebody to tell me who I am, if they wouldnt mind. She couldnt open the honey jar by herself, and Calpurnia shivered from behind the bookcase....
http://www.formspring.me/froze ncastles As they say, I might as well live.
oh, have you ever wanted to &nb...
ah dear, you like to throw your blankets of stillness everywhere so that they smother the fingers waltzing around edges of wineglasses. moths poised on jagged eyelashes, and what a shame wed lost tho...
Dears, In all sincerity, I am quite sorry for my absence. I have been terribly negligent, but you know how it is when words seem to wither at your fingertips, like seashells in forgotten pockets ...
Next time I waver, remind me never to put my trust in one of those with dark eyes and tiger hair, the opposite side of the soul-sea, the other gender. The minute we turn vulnerable, they have the pow...
&...
Sometimes you say you dont care, but I think you are just afraid of shattering and leaves of glass and orange-trees. Its a bit thorny, and these violet rags so heavy. With cake-crumb eyes and cider t...
of all the labelled jars on the shelf, star-anise was her favourite. he had different deas though. he wanted her to read dostoevsky and brew him bitter tea. the wool-makers pondered these though...
She came at the last pocket of summer; when angel wings of bruised plaster were tearing away from the walls and the willow-pattern curtains were still, quietly reminiscing a time of ma...
Eight-year-old arms are frail, draped like wool over your Chinese lantern eyes. They say crickets drown in perpetuity of light, the buttery cashmere rays dance their own waltz and then fold the ...
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