Apricot.
Tomorrow when.
Is the light that happens.
A fall of sense. In which the wind is animating leaves to sing.
The world rehearses turning its surface. The treeline shifts. Listens for its voice returning. Builds the apparatus to read the apparatus of its own momentum. Call this. Worlding. Diffracting common notions. Gold lit lost.
Chimeric drifting. Decortication. Anxiety in the hour before daybreak. The spinning discs of blue and yellow turning grey. Here I want you to imagine. An eye in the sky. Trained. As near specific. What it sees is what it gets. Now sudden flower. Gold lit lost. A small hand’s full of soil can carry. So many different kinds of drift. Our building wandered, slumbered. Slid. Sluggish as a decorative description. Automatic generation with a low fidelity. Ash coelum rot. A mouse chortle. Insides out. Tomorrow when the apricots bloom.
As almost concrete. To sing them almost tangible. And then the song stops without motion. Or a moment without lighting and fruit materializing. Concepts are different. They are illuminated by gold in front of my eyes. The reality of the reading as mattered. The appearance of purplish spots and patches when girls say that the light on the skin is flying. Gold lost. Lost in the bound horizon. Look. The way things look is everything. Then parts of me breathe before my eyes. Spinning plates. Hand-lit, lost and full of earth. Go, go. Generations, blurry, sticky. I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die tomorrow. Different voices, resting time. Blue, blue, yellow. Scented. Sleeping. Rapid. Bird. Gold. Bright. Lost. In the morning, clean country food, when women talk of light. Losses. Sky losses. Light layers, and the fuel seen in water. The world breathes face-to-face. The yellow spot which is belonging to. And to the blue part of the spectrum. If I don’t talk about it, I can use it, walk on it, watch it like other things. Sleep friends, the dishes in this area are white. Everyone is born, and scientists listen to the sound and read it. On paper. But how to get the colours right. I have sewage and dollars, air damage, fire and radioactive oil. And the girls light up. Children. Kiss. Sleep. Rescue. Theft. Gold. Fire. 
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Patricia Farrell
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