the mountains are more purple 

than I imagined with my thinking 

head, my dry mouth. the sand here 

is fine, sedimental, stays white with 

each cove enclaved, far-flung from 

the world’s visible junk. all morning 

the morning has been slackening,

and day-in and day-out we are thinking of new 

places to call home, in case or in spite 

of the tiding rent. kernels of faith are 

covered in mould, like my stubbornly 

superglued shoes and commitment

to a world that has not yet been built.* 

change feels so mythical when really 

it’s the most everyday of things. 

I hear your voice, how it betrays how 

scared we are. ingrown, twitching.

*Lola Olufemi