Robin’s egg blue linen cotton dyestuff and the mordants + saltflakes from Trevor’s two fingers. Exquisite; it’s the floral element it’s field violet with the robin’s egg pigment like Osti will find in the 70s is how I did the linen cotton. Is that the reason for blue nuance says a head Yes. Will it shrink Dip it in the Seine yes.
Heads exclaim, lift collar to lips and fluff a hood. Test weight. Cradle on forearms like a long child. Whilst he says. Saturation. Takes me to know bridges and streets I think and haystacks, the back of this person that. It’s panic to lie on a crate of peaches. Kind oblivescence is putting me in a box I cannot sleep. I grow a neurosis. Voices in the shuffling me say one thing Le neige fond sous un ciel bleu. Neurosis is not being adored. Neurosis is loving a ribbon not belonging to me. My care. My caring.
How I know I arrive is taking hold. I slip about the shoulders of Syfa. I cover a periapt, a garnet. I wish my recto could know this garnet and my verso our crawling in the gorse. Knowing to wish is like a neurosis. Spell turns Syfa to stone and so I. Starting somewhere about the hem I stiffen. I feel how a woman is taking measurements. I feel how I was a polygon. The scissors never hurt my neurosis. A little white pencil made divots for the neck and mind found diameter dividing by pi. Sure they can hem. Sure she can fetch me a brooch. Petrifying a cloak is like slipping in a box I just went on reflecting in robin’s egg. I’m an heirloom with all this life. Then a cold sun and Syfa moving again. Heat’s in her being beneath me and breeze in mine. I say two things. I’m an heirloom with all this life. House me in the clocktower.
Joseph Spece is author of BAD ZOO (Fathom, 2018) and Roads (Cherry Grove, 2013). He lives outside Boston, MA.