Comments about Myra Pearson
I emit a cry. Reverse time:
reverberated echoes pitch into
my canals as I fly. The vibrations
of location are constantly unstable;
they hurtle through fog with blinding
speed. Sable ears eat and in my constant
need to see shape, I repeat and repeat
my sight cry until I think I might die,
my leathery arms beating the black
expanse of a hole-punched sky.
Pinpricks of light leak in where
I have been. Deaths fill my will;
I am insatiate and hunger during
the night. Nocturnal, my flight is
drunken. In one moment I have ...