Friday, 11 January 2013


The pipestrelle chirrups silently
in a dense Scandinavian forest—

its words turquioise marbles
trying to bounce back, or

scribbled love letters sent and
lost to a wayward postal service.

A whale with a heart as heavy
as two grown men whispers

hello? into an ocean that unfurls
like space, like the whale is a

drifting satellite already given up
on signs of extraterrestrial life.

We sit in our garret, meanwhile,
tongues sticky from envelope flaps,

fingers tired. We send out words
to the world in small packets.

We wait for the words to bounce back.

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