Hannah Caughlin, rooftop in Hackney Wick, London.
The great hunch of the unknown and the untapped charm from the old hungry belly of my friend Dylan.
How could I ever love anything but to be in wisps and glory, even dying, odd living.
If I can reach a long white arm's infinite dipper down deep enough then I'll know that full-eyed vim that hung around when I was 19 in a big foreign city.
Maybe 2 weeks of potions?
Maybe 1 week of strong poison?
Maybe a year reminded of roses?
Or Luna Moths
And Being, wrapped in velvet.