vår/vår

Helmut Newton, Self-portrait Hotel Bijou Paris (1973)

the streets are different: after a winter of sleep without dreams, I drink the air greedily and talk to strangers. I watch the wickerman burn on top of the hill as the sky burns with it, touching on the limits of being, touching death at sunrise.

I pick wood anemones and hold them in my arms like a skew-eyed mother. In the mornings I implode suddenly and without warning.

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