Untitled, Z.Z. Wei
caves in a far stretch of the river collect suitable brushstrokes. pixels, insides. some mountains close down a flower. leaving higher wreck at sundown, other salt feet pash
umm al dimagh as safiqa, no tablets burden a shoulder now lands on a caved door, the first balloon disappears into birds, flanking coir and mission grist. a lice surfaces in heat, blue at its ends, between stairs, worlds and yawn.
when asked for it they make it comfortable. blister their thickset skin already close to al-fajr. scribes lug seas between themselves, pitchers and umm salt deposition, packed buoyancy, clearest middle length. حلقات أحد الأبيض فمها الثرثرة
[the white sun rings her yammering mouth]
Review by William Fairbrother
More environments than narratives. The Nose is an Ear and has rounded a corner. Somewhere in that spiritual dividing line between the world of forms and the formless levels.