Jaya Savige

Ripeness was a semitone below the bone clef of the elbow keying the rain-slicked cyclone fence: the firm, saclike rind of a warped minim, golden drupe note for which we longed. Stone fruit are fine tutors. This one unseals a sensual nose hit. At dusk they go lambent like chunks of bent gloam. Sucked, their fibrous pith is birth-pouf — punk oblong pits belonging in a goblin’s pot, infused with rich static and the fresh electric scratchiti of summer lightning. It’s fortune gave us this softer unit, surely. Edgewise the frangipani made a rain-gap fin for heads rife with fire in the shade of the mango belt.

Dense night is a needs thing. You were lured in a luminous canoe said to have once ruled a lunar ocean. The 2 am soda pour of stars is all but silent; only listen — sedater than a sauropod in the bone epics it spills all the moon spice, releasing a sap odour that laces us to a vaster scale of road opus. A carousel of oral cues, these spinning sonic coins. A slide show of old wishes.