The first poem in a series of handwritten poetry about South Africa.   Politics the stuff of legends left us all unable and unwilling but heavily wanting   to form societies -that enjambment of kings and their slaves-   and to arm ourselves with falling walls that blood nectar of complacency    



winter crawls into my fingers and I can form no words but hers   and her handwriting dominates me awkwardly misshapen letters like puberty   she leaves me a woman but gives me no wisdom with which to navigate the newfound ice   and she leaves me swiftly and she leaves me bare when she…Read more winter