Coiled shells of snails rest where eyes once blinked. Worms inch through blue veins, as pink and transparent as fetuses on film. Bramble ribbon hair; touch and you will bleed, pricked.

. . .

Last winter, a westward wind had blown parts of my self into the compost pile behind the house, among the eggshells, garlic skin and banana peels. Then time flourished its invisible hammers and atom-sized saws; time broke me, broke very bone, broke down every stubborn fibre, until I was porous, absorbant, nutrient-rich.

Ash grew from the black loamy earth of my palms. Blackbirds pried open my thighs. Everyday my skin cells converted into flies that were, in turn, devoured by swifts.

. . .

Nothing goes to waste. Or everything that was waste becomes energy.

. . .

In the city, I observe with the solitude I acquired in the Burren: silvery, stippled with shadows, maidenfern growing in the grikes. A lone fox, leaping over the sunwarmed limestone. Skulking, keen and hungry, like a semi-feral cat prowling for robins under the elderflower bushes.

When I try to speak at clubs, in cafes, at work, I'm incomprehensible. How do you translate the change in light and air?

Crack my skull open; inside: moss-bedded eggs for brains.

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