If time is ‘a meaning that we impose upon motion’
           how long have I been watching that shaking of dust?

This world
                    opens to the back of beyond,
with meadows, purpled like Blaukraut.

A sky, blaring neo-psych
                                            Fields full of my house plants,

    Calathea Networks, with chloroplasts dividing like a Klimt painting.
Memories of friends, eating Chow Mein on the floor,
                tidal waves of noodles, a lavish palette...
                            a world textured by different kinds of ‘time’.

Images of myself, sometimes with pink hair, sometimes red,

                    resin rings, jelly nails, green eyeshadow, butterfly clips, tooth gemmed             Sweet and hungry for something she can’t name -


hiding in her own estuaries ... sandbanks of golden sugar,

                                        red dunes crumbling

under wet feet, above hangs the honey pomelo,

                            sucked to the navel of the

sky.

Somewhere liminal, more pink haired girls   

        loosen jaws, looking, hungry for a real redshift world.