Co-editor Molly's fragments of poetry drawn from a working collection titled, ‘The Art of Entropy’.
Pale in moonlight you walked,
seeking not me and not you,
but something I could never conceive.
It was always inside, always alive.
Past clocktowers you haunted
wishing something akin to chance to occur.
But you dreamed too vividly.
The wish fades yet still you linger.
Now she appears, perched on a piece of glass
and I gaze upon that something you long ago searched for.
Pale in moonlight I stumbled,
seeking what you had found and not found.
But it was something I could never find, and never conceive.
Head with Insect (1935), Catherine Yarrow. Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art.
And I cracked. Brittle bones
on cold hard floors not waiting
for you to piece me back.
Voids filled with absence.
You swam. Deepest red,
in my pool of selfhood.
And I buried myself
to hurt more, to hurt less.
But you come from under me,
holding yourself grand.
I shrink. I have become like the terrified rabbit
you wanted as a pet,
yet I claw. I bite.
You let go
just as I let go;
a reciprocal entanglement.