at the time of writing a single apple costs 45p
the writer is sleeping well
at the time of writing
the glasses in the cabinet have never been quieter
the writer is thinking of eating her own hands
at the time of writing all
blueberries appear to be shipped in from Spain
the writer dreams of millionaires with blue teeth
her childhood friends in white theatre masks
the bones of their feet
the valley of cherries in Ljubljana
that keeps the whole country well-stocked in cherries
but the writer dreams them as tiny blood buds
which is to destroy the image
at the time of writing the boundless joy
of a pre-walk dog is suggesting itself in the writer’s chest
a bruise the size and colour of a grape
intensifies on her thigh
at the time of writing the writer is thinking
of composing a painting and a subject is needed
a reclining night sky? canyons of fruit trees?
an abandoned baby bear?
the writer is running her fingers
over the carvings of an Egyptian temple
so much past seems absolutely impossible
it later deflates her to learn
that the temple has been moved from the original site
the experience now seems less valid
* * *
at the time of writing the writer refuses to believe
she will ever die, as the flowers in the streets
refuse the same, as too do those in homes,
parks, cemeteries, places we cannot see
* * *
at the time of writing the days are wide as lakes
and often deeper
the writer feels verbose and embarrassed
by her overwhelmingly positive experience of life
while traveling for a writing project
the writer meets another writer
seeking refuge from his home country
which was no longer a safe place for him to write
when she asks if he misses his home
searching for herself in him atrociously
and he says not home, his family
the writer asks when will he see them again
and the writer answers he cannot imagine when
he talks about home still as my country
the writer cannot image ever using these words
in her hostel room the writer cries
loudly over the bathroom sink
which is full of cherries soaking in water.