Kate Moss plans her getaway

A Poem by Anon ymous

There is always the sea. The last place
to worship. It is primitive, the future.
It is the altar for heaven.

The sky is awestruck, feels feeble
and helpless, runs through possibilities:

roiling
tumultuous
serene
tempestuous

settles on tranquil.

It is sunlight scattered amongst the leaves.
It is within reach;
limb by limb she begins.

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Kate Moss practices meditation

A Poem by Anon ymous.

Once she opens her eyes it will be all over.

A small brown bird sits on the sill, next to geraniums.
Believing is art.

An unfinished painting leans against the wall.

She folds her hands together.
The wind passes over in a trance.

She says it is cruel to capture fireflies, steal their light.

Her lips are dry, a leaf flutters then falls;
she curses it, but never out loud.

She is unrepentant.