Our stories: riffs
on coming through, coming home, becoming. Riffs on fragmentation. On redemption. Riffs on love
loss death. On staying alive. The search for power security status
money drugs sex even violence all about being loved, being loveable, being able
to love – or not. (Intimacy distorted makes killers of us all.) Outside the
window the buzzard lifts off, tilts wings into the cloud. Here the hound lifts
her muzzle, reads the wind, drinks only rainwater clotted with silt from the
old terracotta pot. In Kenya a woman’s terrified for her life and there is
nothing we can do.
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