Your dream-faces have visited me since leaving—

not in vague, amorphous memory, but in macro-lens closeness; hot and pulsing.

Last night I watched foundation separate on your cheek, mottling pink skin wet with tears.

Downy hairs haloed your jawline.


they visit me too, the outline of that which I can’t make sense

we are on a balcony with a sliding door

tenement blocks stretch a grid to dawn

but i can’t see faces

night stars behind the lamplight

and circling, a suspect cartography of moth bodies on the wing.


Undone by the prospect of the infinite depths of infinite subjectivities, could you just

Tell me how you see the future

Open space or drowning?

Please could you just

Interrupt me

Anonymity and intimacy fold into each other

[by Brigid Quirke

Tim Manktelow

Georgia Lockie]