We have exhausted all the usual explanations. Too fast for days, hours, minutes, it is not time she measures; except in her own ageing face in the dark mirrored window.
It is for me the breath of almost-touch peculiar to feathers; you describe burning and blood. They are stooping grey greatness, magnificent, and yellow desert is a given; desert with an edge
There is nothing of me here; only response and request; times and places; an odd draft of something long out of date. I do not keep everything I should; you are disappeared, even that photograph of us with the Tyne bridges glowing. It is old now. And gone.