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viki holmes - Wales

he dreams of waking ...

viki holmes - Wales

 

look at that, i could eat the sky when it's like this, he says, as tho’  he’d never loved another.
the island of a footstep evaporates in the early morning sun, like a language dying.
he remembers an arm, not his own, under his neck.
there are no words for this, he repeats to himself, like he makes it so by saying it.
there is a noise like a smile, the shower rushes to meet him, this is latitude.
he remembers an orange breakfast at his fingers, the juice of papaya like rusty leaves.
the third sentence of every book he reads makes sense.
his third word comes from under his breath.
his third dream is a dream of waking.

 

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