Freeform morning for wild plastic flowers, set-alight satellites, and the bitter wounded moon.
Endless angel wings, blades, beating a glimmering engine’s drawn out thirst and lust.
Inconsequential windows, silvery metallic sinews, every third a triangle crystal,
the nebulous gossamer prism this view takes,
a universal inkblot reversed, inverted.
The burn of the nuclear rule, memories faded sepia, renewed,
distilled in their fragility, a wandering sense of presence, future happiness past.
Five tied knots in blackened hands, fingernails pouring droplets through tubes,
that never land, that surrender only pictures and impressions,
the white light of vicissitudes.
© Greg Fiddament 2018
Montage: Claire Palmer