HEATHER BIRRELL

Oh, Sunday Evenings Oh, Sunday evenings: slabs of silence, loops of gloom; maybe
in lieu of this only happening to me, we could stare together
at the mute moon, channel the focused burn of the extraordinary? Generations of chroniclers, partial data engineers and delusional conquistadors, gather round my magical nest! A songbird
I know found the pink of morning quickening into optimism... and parties and a perfect baseball game! Someone draw me a portrait of a gentleman fishing in a sewer, then sketch the ways you irritate me and bring me tea. We can listen to a podcast about rhizomes that travel -- like the best commuters! -- underground. Or stand on ceremony like cows beside a car. We will swallow our suffering, sugary, opal-coloured. Come; you have the right to remain here
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