Gold drone | Yellow curtains, with a ghost drift, shift faintly / green cuttings fume and lie | <genie of divorce, magician of indifference> | Scents of petrol, semen and grass | and heat, verging on | drought | Dregs, summer swills at the bottom of a bottle, warping into them, they make the hills young | and distance isn’t | really distance for them | yet | She sips him, when the snow arrives | he freezes and stays, she leaves | keeps walking. Now distance is distance.

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from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

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