Vahni Capildeo was born in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad in 1973. The most recent of her five books of poems is Utter (Peepal Tree Press, 2013). A selection of current work appears in New Poetries VI (Carcanet, 2015) and a chapbook, Simple Complex Shapes (Shearsman, 2015). A new collection, Measures of Expatriation, is forthcoming from Carcanet in 2016. She has a DPhil in Old Norse and has worked as a lexicographer for the Oxford English Dictionary and a judge for the Forward Prizes. She enjoys and encourages innovative collaborations that are both local and global. When we meet for this interview in May 2015, she is the Judith E. Wilson Fellow in Poetry at the University of Cambridge, where she has collaborated on responses to the Bacchae, beckoned spring with equinox readings of Iain Crichton Smith and T. S. Eliot, and calmed students with Azure Noise. Next, she will summon Persephone with poetry in the garden of Murray Edwards College.
I met Vahni for the first time less than a year ago, when I commissioned her poem ‘KASSANDRA #memoryandtrauma #livingilionstyle’ for an anthology of contemporary women’s poetry, Furies (For Books’ Sake, 2014). Like her resurrection of the unheard prophet, ‘Cities in Step’ is preoccupied with crying out, memory and wayward fantasy. Heed her words: she knows how to dream.
You’ve written about sleep before, in the Louise Bourgeois sequence, and I wanted to ask you about this idea of sleep as a sort of make-believe city. This fascinated me and reminded me of Judith Butler’s ‘critical promise of fantasy’ – that if you can imagine an elsewhere then sleep is doing work in real time, the dreamwork makes the elsewhere more possible.1 ‘Cities in Step’ made me think of sleep as a salve: it makes becoming a girl possible, or makes the dreamer more able to step from one situation to another. Do you think of sleep or dreams as having a kind of curative property?
For me there are at least four different levels in which sleep invades the text. One is that when I was very little I had an experience of lucid dreaming, which I still can really do. I dreamt that I was in a hotel we often went to in Tobago, with an open balcony, and that there was an earthquake – which does happen – but that I was shaken off the balcony. And in the dream I suddenly thought, ‘This is a dream, if I choose to I can float,’ and I floated down onto the marble-tiled open ballroom, and I looked around and I felt things were wrong, I felt within the narrative I didn’t deserve to have survived. And I continued the dream for a little while, in this lucid way, and then woke up with a vague sense of trouble. But ever since then, and I don’t know if it’s because I’ve always practised meditation, I’ve been able to have a very rich dream life, or very dreamless sleep.
So a real level of control over sleep life…
Yes, a real level of control and also a level of reality. Father Lai Fook, my maths teacher in Sixth Form, told me one of the things he did was to look at Pure Maths problems before he fell asleep, and not try to solve them, just look at them as beautiful objects. And then when he woke up, the solutions would start working themselves out. So sleep came to seem like either something quite active or something you could plunge into.
The second notion of levels of sleep can be related to when I started reading for the DPhil in Old Norse and translation theory. I looked at ideas to do with, for example, retiring into sleep as a deep mode of accessing bits of your brain that the conscious clattering day wouldn’t allow. For example, when early Iceland held a sort of referendum on whether to be Christian or Pagan at the law meeting, according to the Íslendingabók, the Book of Icelanders, the lawspeaker, Þorgeir Ljósvetningagoði, retired under his cloak for three days, and then emerged with the solution. There is a fascination in the thought that you can actually zone into rather than zoning out of…
The third aspect of sleep would be as a literary device which allows some of the oblique or non-explicit meaningfulness of modes such as fantasy, which can deal vividly but indirectly with the urgent, mixed, weird world. I would wish to use this device – or rather, could not escape its deploying itself – to conveying a more ‘post-colonial’ layered awareness (cf. Ursula Le Guin or Nalo Hopkinson). I’m fascinated by how it’s possible to read one city through another. So, if I did something that would be illegitimate, like reading Florence through Port of Spain, and I didn’t want to make a big political or cultural point, simply show the mixing – which happened just because I was bodily and mentally in one, and bodily and mentally in the other – dreaming becomes a useful language. It saves me from having to politicise that moment of mixing in the text. I can speak from the sheer experiential reality of having mixed instances of memory-and-place, memory-in-place.
So it has a more subtle hybridity…
Yes… Now the fourth thing about writing with or from sleep or dreams is that in terms of the bargain with the reader (not that I totally believe in ‘the reader’): we know we are both let off the hook, and that the text can go anywhere.
That makes me realise that I read your poem like a lucid dream. There are these altering levels of control and chance throughout: I love the Icelandic idea of dream as a problem-solving device, and as a tonic. There is also a classical example of an ancient temple where sick people slept at night so that they would dream their own cure, in this sacred sleep space.2
The poem says that ‘colour happened’ and ‘black happened’, in the Middle English sense of ‘hap’ as chance. And then there’s this refrain, ‘absolutely no change, absolutely no change’. How does the element of chance come into your writing? If we’re comparing it to sleep, you have a lucid control, but does that still allow for an element of chance, spontaneity, and lack of control too?
There may be two levels of lack of control, and one of them is related to the ‘absolutely no change’ refrain. I wrote this poem when I’d just moved to Cambridge, and the year seemed to open for me as a glorious prospect of writing. And so I sat down with my back against some packing boxes – the kitchen was all packing boxes and I couldn’t get to the cooker – I was extremely physically tired, and also disorientated, as it was the first time since I was 18 that I hadn’t had a base in Oxford. I let my mind do what it wanted and wrote the results, rather than having any sort of editorial control. That is how I got the main body of the poem. It was watching how the mind was trying to place itself in that moment of physical disorientation.
…like dreaming your own cure, in the way people talk about automatic writing, or the talking cure. If you leave your mind to its own devices or up to happenstance, will the answer arrive in the writing?
Perhaps; but the ‘absolutely no change’ was the secretly political bit. I had in mind how people can be constructed by gender, class, race, age, ability, et cetera: I sometimes feel, when entering a space or conversation, that I’ve already been constructed as something. Then, no matter what I say, or how I feel the situation could evolve, I’m imprisoned in supposedly speaking ‘as a’ medievalist, or Trinidadian, or woman. The ‘absolutely no change’ was partly about that: it doesn’t matter how much you can shift from city to city, there are these frames which are placed upon you as an interlocutor.
The other thing was that ‘absolutely no change’ recalls street interactions with beggars. In the south of England, I’ve several times been mistaken for a beggar; once when I was wearing a purple silk top and floral circular skirt for a garden party at Christ Church, and I was waiting for my mother outside Marks & Spencers. Perhaps it’s to do with South Asian people turning up on Oxfam posters and so on – you don’t see a whole lot of them heading up a football team.
I wondered about the double meaning of ‘absolutely no change’, which combined with ‘crying out as currency’, brings out that monetary sense in both. But also the idea that the only timescale in a dreamscape is recurrence – things won’t go away. ‘Crying out as currency’ seemed such a brilliant description of dreams, in the sense that this is the only mode in which they work: a current crying out. That then reminded me of your Kassandra poem and another association with sleep as relentless prophecy, that isn’t fully heard in waking time, as it were.
Relentless prophecy is a beautiful phrase, and that’s an excellent linkage. The dreaming mind does tell people things they would rather not hear sometimes. But there is also ‘currency’ in terms of fluency, of couramment or corriente, in French and Spanish, which would be used to mean fluency in a language. So crying out would be a linguistic and primal sign which people are fluent in: there’s a strange way in which, when you are too much or falsely constructed in instants of encounter, what remains or occurs is effectively the pure shrieking of ‘I am here’, or ‘I suffer’, or ‘I love’, or ‘love moves me’, or ‘suffering happens’.
…and those are the things for which there’s ‘absolutely no change’, even if you adapt the currency.
A missing word for change could be ‘exchange’ or ‘interchange’, because the other thing of course with dreams is that they are monologues.
Picking up the idea of monologue, the ‘you’ in ‘Cities in Step’ seems quite fluid: there is the ‘you’ that wants to be a girl, and there’s the ‘you’ that dreams in black and white. But then this section in the clothes shop, and the ‘aren’t you with him?’, seems more like the ‘you’ as directed at the previous ‘I’ of the poem. It seems as though dreams break down within their monologue, so you can end up talking to yourself.
Yes, within a single (not singular) dream or poem, there may be smaller dramas with differently refracted ‘I’s. In point of fact, this piece contains more autobiographical material than my poems usually do. That was a real encounter in a sunglasses shop in St Ebbe’s Street in Oxford, where I had come in and was looking around for quite a few minutes, and then someone younger than me, looking as described in the poem, and visibly not with me, came in after me. When I asked the shop assistant, who had been ignoring me, basically, ‘Please may I spend some money buying your sunglasses which appear to be for sale’, she said that she thought I was with that other person. Which was curious, because there was no reason to assume that he would be the person that had to do the asking.
So ‘absolutely no change’ could also denote these pre-formulated ideas you can’t intervene in.
And also who the ‘you’ is.
You say ‘I dream cities overwhelmingly, not people’, and I wondered if there’s something about cities that makes them more malleable to being changed for and into a dream, whereas people might be a harder substance to build on…?
That’s rather beautiful, I hadn’t thought of that in terms of individual people. Here again I was trying to be a little tricky, putting in a large idea as if it were quite small. I remember reading William Carlos Williams’s Paterson when I was younger, and being annoyed by a couple of lines in there: ‘a man like a city and a woman like a flower…’ (though I do like flowers). Paterson is a text I continue to think with and through, so in daily life I sometimes relate my feelings about it to what it’s like being in a city. I read Paterson through from beginning to end. I now can sit and stare at the poem, whether in the book or in my head: it is city-like, in that there are places you can hurry through and places you can linger. I started thinking not of the poem, but of sentences as being city-like in those ways.
When I was teaching creative writing and one of my fellow teachers kept telling people to write short sentences like Raymond Carver, I contradicted him in my alternate sessions: a sentence could be something to wander around, like a park that might have benches in it, where you sit down and admire the wrought ironwork. Then the woman as a flower floats back into my mind’s eye, individual, a character within the story of a civilization, yet not (allowed to be) representative either of civilization or a civilization. And I started thinking of the lyric form as being associated with the cry: how the famous lyricists like Sappho are associated with being female… People do talk nowadays about women poets who write long poems: Alice Oswald, or Alice Notley, or Dionne Brand – of course, previously H.D. or earlier, Elizabeth Barrett Browning; nonetheless, wanting to produce the great big poem remains quite masculine. So the crying… the girl aren’t always or necessarily desirable in my poem; hardly what the poem even pretends to want to be. Again, it’s partly about ‘no change’, because if you are the girl, what access do you have to the city? Or have you been creating the city? And are you crying or are you building?
Yet there is a triumph for the girl within the structure of the poem. In the poem’s beautiful ending, it becomes ‘girls overwhelming cities’, rather than ‘dreaming cities / overwhelmingly’. There is a triumphant inversion there, from being overwhelmed to doing the overwhelming. That’s what gives the poem its sense of a cathartic or curative property, resolving itself through its own language. That refiguring of the poem’s earlier language continues in ‘crying out / sweetening / sleep’ – as opposed to the opening’s ‘crying out is currency’ – so you almost feel well rested by the end. There is a vitality you get from turning the syntax inside out.
I think you’re perfectly right, and I think it’s partly to do with the way the poem was placed in my mind during composition. I dedicated it to the Weyward Sisters… some women I met at the University of Glasgow who aren’t all in Glasgow any longer; we try to read difficult books in our own time and have a loose sort of reading group – we might get through two books a year. We have had messed-up lives in various ways, so we quest for non-silly ways of paying attention or valuing everyday kindness; the Weywards are incredibly strong and creative women, and move between at least two different cities, or three different cities, or a couple of countries, or two or three countries… The Weywards got the dedication because we have been able to reclaim a complex ‘I’, which is implied by the ‘you’: not the ‘I’ as representative or singular, but as somehow intersubjective or shared, in a Woolfian way. That friends treasure or preserve or have custody of bits of each of their ‘you’s – sometimes a good or interesting bit, that ‘you’ wouldn’t be the keyholder of when being ‘I’. A Weyward Sisters city becomes a collective dreaming intervention.
I was going to ask about the Weyward Sisters. I know we’ve talked briefly before about Christine de Pizan’s Book of the City of Ladies and your Sisters reminded me of that a little bit: this idea of shared dreaming and investing yourself in others, whereby you’re not only going to build a city that’s a dreamspace, but then will also people it with exactly who you want. There’s a downside to such utopias, which might keep out as many as they let in. But in this poem, the sense of waywardness could resolve that problem – if the City is not a static place, but rather ‘Cities in step’, with cities in the plural and sisters in the plural… I wanted to ask you about the idea of travel within the poem, and the continual ‘step from there’ that might be the key to breaking out of any set ideal or dream. In this poem, to be constantly on the move could be a real asset in some sense…
And it’s also quite tiring in another sense, because there’s a strange way in which it’s a fake… not exactly fake. But the steps in the poem were a way of trying to fold one place over another; that’s another way that the poem was being quietly political, whilst hiding it in the dream mode. I believe certain people do need continuity in life. I do need more continuity than I used to think I did. There’s simply a process by which the mind starts to produce images more freely or fluently if it has a reasonable guarantee that the mind’s owner will return to the same place for X number of days, or see a plant grow for X months, even if this is not directly represented in any writing. You are within time and in a different relation to the things of this world if you’re always saying, ‘Oh I’ve planted the seed, I’ll go back and see the tree’.
So there was the politics of resisting the easily migratory stance and aesthetic that is so marketable for ‘international’ authors, resisting saying, ‘Oh it’s the best of all possible worlds, so when the migratory mind flickers I’m going to make a huge virtuoso flicker’. I was attempting a little quiet folding – a desperate stitching-up of what was continuous. And then, more politically, I was resisting saying things like, ‘When you are in the sunglasses shop in Oxford, it doesn’t even occur to you that in pristine-looking beaches in Trinidad, oil has been discovered, and those will be ruined in order to fuel the wasteful economy, in order that sunglasses are produced for sale elsewhere.’ I didn’t want to do a finger-pointing essay poem, but rather quietly bring things near that are geographically far, but have become causally near, to show the way our world is now manufactured.
More generally in your work, picking up that idea of being quietly political, where do you feel most artistically comfortable on that spectrum?
I didn’t want to be political at all. I thought when I was younger that political poetry necessarily involved overt ideology, surface engagement and/or documentary realism. These didn’t drive me creatively. So I thought I could only pretend to be a political writer in the sense that someone like Merle Hodge is a political prose writer in Trinidad. You can absolutely see what community issues are animating her novels, which are also very beautifully written, but you could strip out of that a documentary and go and make it if you wanted to. And then I started thinking, in a more nuanced way – after I had travelled a little bit more to places like Delhi and the Almost Island Dialogues, an international writers’ meeting held there every year – of the ineffable value of happening as doing, of letting the imagination work as intensely as it does. I don’t mean in a lazy and wallowing way, but to live quite fully, and to go into these zonal dream states, like the Icelandic lawmaker going under his cloak, and to let the imagination, like with a pure maths problem, produce a solution in the form of a poem. A solution to what would essentially be irresolvable if you tried to do it politically, whether in terms of stylized, disruptive surface or documentary realism.
That it can’t help having a political value, as imaginative work; that it does actually deliver something?
Well, it can help having it. I had in mind how more strongly imaginative poems can be more political. For example, when I was doing Mahmoud Darwish’s Memory for Forgetfulness with a class of students (the book is set during the 1982 bombings of Beirut, but the narrator’s obsessed with making the perfect cup of black coffee in a white cup – that becomes a kind of refrain, even while the book’s texture and direction go through both lateral and vertical histories of the region), I remember one student being infuriated and thinking that Darwish trivialized war; as though in places of war, all the literature should be about war. It’s incredibly political to refuse to be reduced by the contingency of war, to being the object of war. There’s a kind of liberation of the subject if the imagination is so engaged.
I wanted to talk about colour as well, because that’s another thing that gives this poem a dreamlike quality. How do you use colour, how do you summon it? Or, does it just appear?
It appears. Other people have asked if I was synæsthetic; I now wonder if I am for colour with touch, since last Christmas when I had acupuncture and different needles provoked specific colourbursts. I’d always thought it was migraine when overwhelmed by imagined colour presenting itself; for example if somebody hugged me at the end of the evening to say goodbye and that was ‘yellow’ or ‘galaxy’, I would dismiss it as fatigue. But with the acupuncture colours, I realised this was something.
Possibly I do have a hypersensitivity to colour in some way I don’t understand, but with poems it’s more that I get a 4D vision of worlds in which the poem takes place, and even if it were something quite stripped down – I mean no trees or beaches or buildings or whatever – I would still have a complete mental world over which to float the four or five words. I had a very strong sense of colour palette with Cities in Step – including lustre and grain: the rainbow oil black, and a grainy gold, which could either be sand or building mortar. I let those guide me; I recognise what is given, what turns up strongly from the imagination, and then I do not necessarily resist it. I could obviously have built a slightly politically oppressive encounter in lots of ways, but because I was going with the black and gold, this is where the sunglasses episode came up.
And both black oil and black sunglasses sometimes conjure rainbows…
…Exactly, yes! It’s also to do with my mother telling me (though I’m not sure if it’s scripturally attested) that the Hindu goddess Kali, whose name means ‘black’, is a goddess of joy if you’re truthful and she doesn’t need to destroy you, and that black contains all the colours. Of course, in terms of physics it’s white that can be refracted into all the colours, but my mother told me to think of black as the deepest blend of every possible colour, rather than absence.
Returning to the autobiographical elements in the poem: on the east coast of Trinidad, I was digging a sandcastle and the sand suddenly ran like rope through my fingers, since the beach contained oil in its very substance. There were flares of an oil processing plant about half a mile down from us, but this particular section hadn’t been tapped. The sandcastle was all gold, except for my tower and bridge with these ropes of black sand in them – it was bizarre.
I loved the fireflies and their matchbox likeness, and that idea of a thought occurring like a synaptic spark. It reminded me of what you call the ‘thought of thinking’ – I guess you could call inspiration a thought of thinking, an extra level where things flash in colour, maybe, rather than just being written.
That’s incredibly perceptive. It’s those extra levels that I’m trying both to work from and convey in poems, rather than a surface level of critical rationality, which assembles a poem and can then deconstruct it.
I did grow up with fireflies, the tiny fireflies that crawled along the white walls of the corridor, and I was the strange child who liked insects to crawl all over her hand, and imagine that they were her friends. And the fireflies’ fiery bit just looks pale yellow: it doesn’t look anything particular until you switch the light off or have a power cut. Then I went to a performance by Aaron Williamson, and he was doing something with matches, looking at them, and then the match would go out. I thought it was to do with Scott of the Antarctic and getting from one point of dark to another, with small illuminations of hope and effort, but it turned out that Aaron was trying to depict the process… the thinking of thinking, and its synaptic flares, as you say.
When I arrived in Cambridge for the Judith E. Wilson Poetry Fellowship, Preti Taneja welcomed me and invited me to a screening of O Brother Where Art Thou? outdoors at the Jesus lido, and there were lots and lots of fireflies, and I thought, as I sometimes do with poems, somehow there’s been an accumulation of real occurrence and thinking – a kind of serendipitous gravity – and then I knew, ‘Oh, now this is going to go into the poem.’ I hadn’t unpacked or anything. I was feeling very disorientated, which helped to hook the fireflies into the ‘Cities’ poem, because that night the lido was one of these utterly welcoming yet utterly temporary places. The large screen was temporary, and also everyone else there was deeply embedded in Cambridge, and I had just arrived for a transient fellowship.
How was your writing process affected by your work at the OED? Seeing the way that language works within a dictionary, viewing that process from the inside, how did that affect the way words come to you?
It might be the other way round, that I was drawn to the dictionary because of a sense of being inside the whale but not dark, or maybe inside a large, serpentine river – inside coruscating language with lots of different parts. People joke about the dictionary being toil or drudgery – and a lot of it is almost mind-numbingly, breakingly routine. But then there are – or at least there were for me and for some of the other lexicographers – incredible immediate beauties, and also an excitement that no matter how hard you try, language is essentially enormous and untamable, and the minute you refer to a ‘live dictionary’, even with all the software, the record remains behind what’s happening in that huge river-serpent of language. I may have been drawn to that work because I knew it would be given to me in alphabetical batches: you’d have purple and pyramid, and pyrite, and all these things.
It actually formulates a kind of synæsthesia just in the alphabetical order.
Yes, and it’s also a bit like walking out through a city, because you might say I know perfectly well I’m going to the railway station or the park or whatever: at the railway station there’ll be a timetable and at the park there’ll be flowers; but then someone has thrown flowers on the street on the way to the railway station, and there’ll be a noticeboard at the park. There’s this curious serendipity that you impose this dutiful trajectory, and it works, and yet it’s full of all these little bits of things that yet aren’t chaos.
You could compare libraries and lexicography in the sense that the people trying to impose order are the ones who know the best how untamable it is. And there’s actually a fascination with the untamable part: it’s what makes you enjoy the attempt even while knowing that it’s hopeless.
It’s what keeps you going in what would otherwise be unbearable long term. The sense that you are clipping the ocelot’s nails.
Yes! I also loved the ‘essentially solitudinous, yet occasionally leaning’ giraffe. Now that you’ve told me the anecdote about going to the firefly cinema, it seems to speak to the Weyward Sisters, this gentle interdependency where you can be upright and tall and apparently mobile and independent, but with a long-lashed leaningness as well. And that ‘friendliness that’s seldom measured by scientists’: I really liked the idea that this isn’t a classifiable kind of knowledge or relationship or dependency, it’s something that is not necessarily spoken, but it’s there.
Yes, it’s that idea of gentle interdependency that most interests me in living and working, the idea of the solitudinous, where people have space around them, but not a space of delusional individualism or terminal exceptionalism where they think that they can make their own way. Returning again to the Weyward Sisters, there’s this way that people’s best selves are interlocked, or their idea of themselves at any given moment might not in fact be adequate to themselves, and the only really adequate idea comes through this very gentle interdependency with others. As for the sources of the image: my mind puts things together that are similar, and the way that sunlight dappling through the sea in St Lucia or Tobago or Trinidad, in the shallows, makes an extraordinary sort of giraffe pattern. I had read a curious statistic, a kind that sticks in the mind, that giraffes are sociable approximately 15% of the time. What that means, or how it could be measured, I have no idea, but then I suddenly thought, that’s very lenient, and if people could be allowed that absurd leniency, that would be rather beautiful.
1 Judith Butler, Undoing Gender (Routledge, 2004), pp. 28-29.
2 Anne Carson, Decreation (Vintage, 2006) p. 22.
For the Weyward Sisters
talk about sleeping
you dream in black and white
i dream in fauve and phosphor
cities where people are held for interrogation
cities where taxidrivers and policemen
systematize their criminality
cities where the friends i can depend on
meet for the first time outside and by chance
cities where the script is not quite Roman
crying out is currency
and so are sweets
i dream cities overwhelmingly
you dream of flowers, dreaming you are
you say what colour suits me
you see what colour suits me
is i-see-no-one-enter colour
is try-the-shop-three-miles-away colour
is would-your-friend-like-to-sign-up-for-the-newsletter-and-the-prize-draw colour
is you-probably-aren’t-looking-for-anything-expensive colour
is oh-sorry-i-thought-you-were-together colour
aren’t you with him
his hair disinterred from a scalp hung in basements
his skin pocked and bubbling spread under soil
his shoulders reaching down to smoosh his elbows
his hands growing in your direction
how else do we know you are here?
didn’t you come with him
into our sunglasses shop
our expensive sunglasses shop
isn’t he the one wanting
polarized designer lenses
why are you behaving
as if you are not with him?
he came in behind you; aren’t you
step from there
absolutely no change
and a good face on it
absolutely no change
let’s go for a picnic
absolutely no change
we have the same basket
absolutely no change
how was your day? Did
you do, have, get, like, buy,
eat, drink, make up, make out
like you don’t
we have spread a cloth on the ground
share another cloth over our knees
pass a flask without commenting
fireflies, their matchbox likeness,
pulled out like a thought of thinking
or of polar exploration,
Scott of the Antarctic, the taste
of chocolate dismissing him, death
seeming more New World, more Aztec
something my company will not
talk about sleeping
i dream giraffes mostly
having put one together
from sand under seawater
dappled by sunlight
at paddling depth
or having seen it rise up
with a friendliness seldom measured by scientists
essentially solitudinous yet
truly i wanted
to build bridges
reinforced with bamboo
and a castle
using the classic
spade and bucket
where living shells
cut or sink
tiny silent circles
hissing with air
and what happened
the colour of
black happened, rainbow
which is black
happened, changed texture
happened, propulsive odour
happened to invade
hopes of building
we were playing
on the beach
and found oil
and looking at
the map’s edge
we’d often drawn
in schoolroom pencil
where, grown-up, we’d
come to play
suddenly the air
filled with technologized
wings, the sand
spurted into wells,
though that moment
it was still
we were alone
nor been told
to frack off
step from there
now dream of flowers, dream we are
both girls, not people
girls overwhelming cities
First Published by Prac Crit.