spills
                       from the sky
burns holes in polyester
coat me in white powder

I shake drops from my eyes;

. . .

Aether

skies open as I plunge silver splinters into fabric 
the colour of my skin threading sirens threading 
scarlet on the edges of the sun they sit —

darling, listen to me, pay attention:

these particles are we made of the same sand

. . .

sandblast ( ) 

n. the inability to see in dim light
 
 
Reason drips and to me it speaks
to my radical, lost dreams it shrieks yet suits
on Wall Street they say, they say,
 
what are you doing, where are you going?
Compartmentalize these things.

. . .

Nyctalopia

uncertain violence traverses an 
ancient route, brutalities hidden while we
are taught the wisdom of human
commerce and capitalism.

we are cogs, a whole 
made of parts
standing in shadows

. . .

the middle ground

Pain of release,
is worth a thousand haters

mothballs, humidity
hang in heat     fill; broken generator.

Whizz-whirr of insects,
at worst tilted by staccato pops.

We scratch surface until wounds burst,
her touch is cold against my socks.

. . . 

Grotto

Have you ever had those dreams
you know, those carbon-dark
sorts of dreams?

Where monsters and men made
of the same fabric move in
and out of each other, amorphic?

. . .

Ellen Chang-Richardson

Selected work