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Hannah Caughlin

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.

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Taken sometime in 1826