Twinkle – is not the name for that mischievous delight within the Artist’s slanted eyes.
Rounded words etch the shape of a soft paper moon dipping to meet shadows in my heart. Poetry uncut. Rhymed in only the vague sensual connotations of each word as they line up like toy soldiers, each nick nackety figurine its own masterpiece in the ensemble.
And the Artist calls us in. An invitation to the naive appreciation of wonder even language cannot touch.
And so we play with bouncing words like kittens kneading string – the Artist and I. We sit caught, laughing in this web.