Gregory Kan

Thickening a Breath

Murmur in the buried lake.

Assembling her sudden limbs.

Collecting precision instruments, blades and edges. Scissors. Scapula. The difference between

what we did and what I did. The price of glass.

One day she will tear the world apart and haul a new one through it.

Will the mirror become itself at last.

A small window to serve a thin fold of skin, an eyelid crushed upon awakening. Peeling open,

which is another growing shut.

She sees a vast accumulation in the colour of time, until it is silence that disappears.

The difference between her skin and sinking.

Do the edges turn blue when furthest apart. Does that affect the trajectory of desire.

Gregory Kan graduated from the University of Auckland, New Zealand, in 2010, majoring in English and Philosophy. His work has featured in Blackmail Press, brief, and Percutio. He currently lives and works in Wellington.
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