Before anyone draws any conclusions, I’m carrying the broken sun with me, I’m taking the long road around sleep, pulling down clouds and lightning, removing whatever I can between us, the sun smoldering in my arms, reducing the flesh to hot ash, and I’m taking it with me all the way, fording the ice-clogged rivers, sleeping in the remaining drifts, the crevasses that water has not yet claimed, we’ll rest here awhile while you try to sort out the events, pull in the telescopes, purge the words day and night from the lips of children; I’ve left my notebooks on the table by the door, but I doubt they’ll be of any help, the script is clear, however, the sentences coherent, but you might not accept the conclusions, the burnt holes on the last page, so we’ll continue on while you put things in order, the road is long and I get weary from time to time, rolling in a burning sphere, my voice echoing off discarded bones.
Andrea Moorhead
Art Rupert Loydell
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