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  • Writer's picturej_a_laing


The people next door are speaking French. Their language laps over the fence on the long breeze. I pick out a word here and there without meaning to. Each flickers like sunlight on the pool, adjacent to another, and another, then is gone; isolated, tantalising flashes. Slippy, hard to hold in the mind for longer than a moment. Constant surface motion implying coherence. Sides limiting fluidity, turning meaning and light back on themselves. Repeating bright shapes that are different every time and encountered afresh every time. It’s too hot to link them into waves. Speech is refracted, demoted. Words and their gaps become sound. I listen without understanding and watch the ripples on the beam.

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