by Tamar Yoseloff

I string together little fables
in a language no one understands.

So much wounds me.
I wite it down, cross it out:

a formula for contentedness -
instead so much violence

They could kill me with a look

You come to me in dreams
blurred touch of you hand

Your name scrawled on every wall.
Your shadow stalks me.

How we got here I don’t know,
there is nowher else.

Winter obliterates us, dizzy light,
our white youth

Bridget Riley, ‘Hesitate’ 1964
Bridget Riley
Hesitate 1964
© Bridget Riley 2020. All rights reserved.

by  Lorraine Mariner

Don’t let those black
full-stops get the better
of what you’ve got.

Cut yourself some slack,
give yourself some shades
of grey

on a wave
that might just take you
beyond the end of the line.