letters from a salvaged sparrow




How the young rage… like the untamed flame against all that is desiccated and weary. If only then, we were like things green, regenerating after the devastation and rising from the dark to become new.


This is my song:



genes mutate

blood howls to blood

rages impotently against

all but the dying light

that flickers in a just-so

dapple of sunlight

umbilicus of the Nautilus

scored and scarred

by the clenched fist

of an infant hand

and ground to sand

in your mouth


(fabulous artwork by C Whiting NZ)

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