1783 c/o Kieran Ryan

in standing here at the dock, grey sea cataracting, scrolls a pair of rolling pins in my arms, hawkweed plant at my feet, a silence like excitement coloured silver and told to hush, hushed and laid down around us; in the strange patience of my palms and the urgency of my kneecaps; in standing with an incomplete minimap, the ground poisoned shrill, the air faster than before, the masts bowing; in standing with a world of sulphur behind me and my vision a bin bag, i held to fear like a flag.