Writing into a laptop screen, screaming into the ground.

My writing exists within the space of inherent disconnect. I am aware of the different spaces I currently inhabit. 

plastic chair on left hand side of chelsea lib

carpet-tiled floor the colour of dust-covered moss

second floor of building 
window made opaque by angular reflections of cooly-lit magazine collection

strange cut-out in the ceiling

a too-clean square of London where they strip the trees 
before they have a chance to shed their own weight

longing to go back to the place where I felt like I truly belonged and had more to see,  I don’t know if that place is here

the edge of a cliff in my mind 

amongst birches and their whispers

redwoods thousands of miles away

the Welsh ocean and down the estuary 

on grass

in grass

in water

under it