There was a severe winter | In a way it was like a fairytale, with icy cataracts and burial snow, the grip of an ancient weather || She felt marooned || She was old, and slowly the city had been growing | greater and greater around her, further and further, more and more unknown and | mysterious | It became harder for her to negotiate stairs, to take a bus, to navigate | tubes and timetables | A lift out of order would block her way, it was a major setback, may send her home | Her knees had | gone | she had pain in her joints and muscles, she had begun to | wizen | So, she went out less and less, and her city | shrank || She became a blurred creature, quasi-spectral, lost between the two lenses of perception, the public and the private, they would not | focus on her || If you had asked her how | this white-haired, delicate figure | had appeared | out of the nubile / cocoon / of her student days, perhaps she would be | at a loss | to answer, or say her only explanation | was a form of dream or the product | of incantation | As in classical mythology, when the gods roamed our world, she had been | metamorphosed, changed | profoundly, only not in an instant but in | a series of instants so extensive and elastic that, at times, it appeared infinite, and all her days / were entire worlds… || Gradually, now, she is becoming | rooted | and the spell of the years | cast over her | Her body twists and stiffens | the agile | mercury of her pulse | grows sluggish, torpid | and she begins to exhibit | the two major signs | which mean | she is ready to be | marked | in the book of oblivion: she forgets, and she is | forgotten

I really just want to create work that’s beautiful. I think people are drawn to beauty, and want to be beautiful, and beauty is that moment you | are caught | without an answer to a question that is most insistently | being asked by you. Of course, the question is endlessly changeable. Sometimes, the answer is | no.



from Semapolis | City of Signs (series of poems, unfinished, 2012–present)