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Spill - Cadence Chung


I'll spill      into the next moment

    I’ll spill     into the past

where the thrumming of cars and buzzing

of starlings were a given; now, only

the starlings sing, hesitantly, like their

   cries could pierce the silence, pop our

bubbles like glass. I dream of all the museums

in Wellington, all of the art with no-one to view it.


Away from prying eyes and greasy human hands

I wonder if the past will come up with its own narrative

I wonder if the paintings come to life, the figures kissing

   confiding secrets in waxy meadows


but this is simply my fancy. It has rained for the past 

few days and what would have been a cosy hum 

  and a keen excuse to stay inside is now 

        a heady trap. I'll spill back


into what was always temporary; the decline of Rome

   didn't show its face as such, but just spilt and spilt and spilt until-

I'll spill back, let my teeth retract, my bones curl into smaller

     forms, my eyes widen with wonder. When the present becomes


a heady haze, and the only solid memory is your last meal

   the past splashes its sepia tones at your eyes until you cannot help

but look at what it is showing you. I think back

     to when I was young, and memorised books for fun ‒ now


whenever I skim through a page, it is already half-past-ten

    at night, yet I still haven't gotten anything done. I'll spill

again, into the vivid greens and snap of leaves beneath feet, of

      tauhou swimming through the air in blurs of olive, singing


like the world has never been brighter. For them, this is just

     another rainy autumn, another dance in their short 

lives, another chance to live before tomorrow 

    swoops in. Tomorrow ‒ I'll slip into


tomorrow, though I try not to, and wonder what it will

     look like. People joke that this is the end of the world

but I think it is simply the end of what we thought tomorrow

       might have been. Things will be different; everything


we've made has always been temporary, always changed

    morphed, shrunk, crumbled into dust and scribbled poetry. We

marvel at ruins and never seem to realise that we will

     become ruins someday, too. I find it strange to think


that this will be in history books, yet I'm still staring out

the window at the ocean like it's any other day, and yet

       unlike any other day I've ever had. There's something about the sea

     that mesmerises ‒ its eternal motion, perpetually raging. Anyway ‒ I'll 


spill back into the moment, into the dull computer screen and books, and

     spill into the glimmer of fireworks on the beach, spill

     into the thrum of rain on the roof, into the crush of green beneath my feet, into

 the next moment, and the next, and take each day one moment 

    at a time.


bodhi brooke-white

I’m home
And that must be good news, right?
And I can do something other than nothing
And nothing won’t count for much out there, believe you me
And I just need to know if this art is nothing
And if this art is nothing, what am I?
I’m home


Life in Quarantine - Tulip Kumar 

Isolation - Millie Crowe


Everyone asking for everyone’s number,

the long wait as they try to remember it.  

Random people talking to you as if you had known them forever. 

Then the realisation. 

Lines twisting from supermarkets,

The people carrying office chairs and copious amounts of toilet paper,

Doors closing, locking, never opening. 

Crossing off the days, 

the so very long days.

The tv on at every hour so not to miss anything.

The short walks.

The homemade meals.

The late night video calls.

People. Going. Crazy. 

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