I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.
Just what love is; just what it means.
Somestuff to present to whomsoever ever reads it.
A gaze a-gaze across the fold.
Take syllabic space ‘n empty it of possibility.
Write it; move on.
Vissuhrah entoombed; brightist star.
It is a song of poems – different parts in different verse throughout a night exchanging stories.
Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.
I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.
A spring begets a stream becomes a river raising tides.