Label: Self released
"waves are each other's toys for drowning"
Winter. Woke again in the single bed, the room a liminal sepia, from the morning sun through the thin brown curtains. From a dream, of a butterfly in the same room, identical palette. It got stuck in something, like a jar of honey or cup of tea, and we couldn't free it. Then, awake, she said, the first thing she said, there's something I want to go see. A boat, in Little Venice, they do puppet shows. Tonight a Lorca play, 'The Butterfly's Spell' or something. An injured butterfly stranded among the other insects. A cockroach poet falls in love and... I explained my dream. Well damn we said. The next day you were wearing the ticket clerk's Matisse earrings. In the intermission we explored the canals and saw the waves splashing across the face of a sundial.