the flesh made word lisa gordon Always the same – tangle of weather shooting from the hip octopus style the sun coming out only renaming it, ditto when the moon prays like a saint. Word & word & word again, the way all you could say would barely fill a shoebox coming apart at the seams clumsily; the talk, the mock faith you put in that a pox on coming clean provisionally. This morning in pea soup weather we miss where the story starts, continue on – continue anyways – into & out of what's been said better elsewhere. Ah, Love, is this what you think or something all together different – the slide of nowhere newly accepted, colour gorgeous & never enough, flesh bowing out of getting it wrong, the fatal tension in the happiness?