Pilgrim's Progress - Wicket Gate

even the glare here is organized

Pilgrim's Progress - Day Wait

For you these walls are tightened air. Are chairs of solid water. And those houses, elements shaped. And for you the same, but various airs - winds in clot; breezes boxed; gusts that are unsure. But for me: - all this is time coming through. Halted. Moving. Waiting. Delayed. At a peak. In a fall. This photograph is a catch of it passing through. See how that chair is a sturdy pause of it? See the table, a hoping wait? But the wall surrounding the window is a gone of it; and those blinds, a reluctance of it to stay - a want of it to go. While the houses roofed in the distance - can there be distance when all is time? - are the mutes of it entombing. And through it all these words are spray; a fingered wisp; an issue.

Pilgrim's Progress - Day When

The new and thick shag-carpet won't hold me - is it quicksand; flood perhaps? And these walls: - you might convince the picture-frames, but might I wander your milky depth? As fridge appears all steady act, but I know you're halted water, convention-encased; boxed by name, as infinite depths swim at the granite kitchen top; as the bedroom doors thin skin.

I won't use you - I can't name you. But I will walk through our listening views: you're a flood in stall; you are breezes boxed. This giddy we we are.

Life in a Suburb: Day When.