3 7 New Street
Clover carpets the depression of the ur-house, the sunken half-pipe that used to hold home, or so I’m told. Hollyhocks burst from the left, screaming fuchsia. Moths, white, chase the Inglewood wind, bellowing: what is this place? who lived here? Walk through barefoot, your soles thistling with remembrance: a woman hardened sitting at your feet. […]
