I like clinging to the dark, shapes test me with surprise nothing is exact. One night from my window I saw a rusted freighter lose her cranes and pulleys; the tar-black hull became a silver saddle, the smokestacks towering masts.
Light lays bare, I feel its cutting edge. Think of the hills with growths of stone and stubble. When shadows reach the top a rounded softness rests like a pillow for the sky. Alice Blackburn