We agitate. We take. Our creativity is
part work, part exquisite accident.
We strike the bluebell
carry its freight within ourselves.
The glade in which we tilt is loud,
but it grows quieter. We can detect bombs among the snowdrops
who are not sad and white but turbulent with purple, back-lit.
We are bombs ourselves. Not quite quorate. En masse.
One hyper-creature among the wood sage,
worshipping the red campion.
It isn’t that I can’t be singular:
I am also private, intimate with
the foxgloves and dandelions. They call like animals, like sirens.
I hum, singing with my whole body in the keys of A and C.
A citizen. Member of the wax pavilion. Mostly feminine.
The others convey their narratives in books of pheromone.
They have been time-travelling in fragrances
collecting holy alphabets.
We are a quorum of cartographers who navigate through dance.
We’ve found the absences where maps are scent-less.
We see you on our thousand screens
covering our violet land.
We are congregating, still collecting
our exhilarations.
We are an alternative to love.
We have been, and we will be, dissolution.
York St John Pollination Project 