(For Sharon)


Does anything lie in between things? A febrile of intangibles - or just something in between? Or slightly in between or to the side? Or upside-down or inside-out? Or something in between them? Contretemps that define precedents. Bowdlerized echoes that ooze and flinch. A cipher sting of execution. Melancholia mixed with a beaten egg. Or two. Redolent fed from a spoon. The heat of the sun on the first day of spring. Bird nets faffed at the breeze. A verisimilitude quality or asset? Words unsaid a dying note not sung. All normal. Or. Of. On. Time that remained unused. Chance not taken. An accumulation of emotions: feelings, instincts, happenings, attitudes, behaviours, hates? Was it the movement of the tide. The way the ocean current drowns at the pole. Or did it become fantasy. A perfect slide rule. Could a thought rest there. Pulsing at the abstract: How she sat on a moment of thoughts. A holograph made of cling film. Why the bees sang to her water music through a tin whistle . All whip and air. Gush of the wind. She was nonsense, pastel, a talc puff, white, spacious - an illusion. Mused at the anticipation of hope. Taking flight. Pulsing up on rainbow cords. She let you in thus far. Then no more. She painted it up. All was fantastic. So straight and accurate that it was almost perfect. The question of nonentity. Zero verticals and twists. Veins of compulsion. Combinations of immortality. Goddesses bathed in the indefinite article. The metaphor junkies high on silly buses. They said she was vulnerable. VULNERABLE. That was the word they used. 'She was always vulnerable.' Or. Was she real? Or just something we touched. In between.