Slow Start

22/04/2021

The gypsy stone doesn’t seem to find its strings. A ruptured alphabet seeks two tongues and five pairs of teeth. They march (remember their sand-beaten hips) balanced on their torched marble feet. A sheet of purples and blue swim faster than its fishes. The stone pounces on letters arranging themselves into earlobes. Hearing all the crackled words popping in the mouth of new born poets. They rinse their mouth with stones and it works their blood into a sea. The stone tosses from one jaw to another. We hear the story of the same spherical glass spoken by artists carrying more glass in the crevice of…