your secret purple voice, a soft violet arrow spoke, “uphill, uphill.”
the years of sally are near us, at the site of fire, and even the flat
bottom surface of a gem hasn’t such captivating skin, a behaviour so inextinguishable.
tonight it seems your biography donates itself to our eyes,
ignoring the paradox of an ending on a fresh-cut saturday.
your architecture is a description only and arresting, literally; the three
of us are made of apples, i’ve said it before. beyond words, you are
a thousand women, the upwards tang of motion. your inconceivable
surfaces are columns of turning, inscribed, elongated flowers.
— Michèle Katrina Thorsen