Saskia Hamilton

“In the night, the bed was as long
as the hours, the hours were as long as the road
or the future, the past was not our destiny,
the foreboding or foretelling was left
on the shelves to the longplaying records
we’d switch on for the warmth of the scratches
that pocked the music like rain, as the needle
wandered all that black circumference—”
― Saskia Hamilton, Corridor: Poems