Poetry

Box.

Lino lines form grids on which we trace our movements. Solving equations

with our feet, we wear the room close to the skin, following the path

of an artery through the heart as warm air seeps like sticky blood

through the open door. Handprints stacked up on the table top

palm to palm unawares, we navigate a route through the negative space

of accumulated clutter. A maze of walls and corners, walls and corners

and right angles build a box as we scrawl words

Viki Imrie