Time of the Lungs
Alex Hackett
Alex Hackett
One book of prose poetry,
one book of photographs.
When I wake early and don’t sleep again, I go to a high place and watch the bats flutter quicker than birds. Sometimes I walk further, and in the cool morning head out and away with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders. The flowers are closed up into their night-time shapes, something other. There is the morning breath of the forest, hot on my body. As walk becomes clamber, I think of all the other beings clasped onto this rock. I find nearly peace.
Edition of twenty.
150x105 mm
2025
one book of photographs.
When I wake early and don’t sleep again, I go to a high place and watch the bats flutter quicker than birds. Sometimes I walk further, and in the cool morning head out and away with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders. The flowers are closed up into their night-time shapes, something other. There is the morning breath of the forest, hot on my body. As walk becomes clamber, I think of all the other beings clasped onto this rock. I find nearly peace.
Edition of twenty.
150x105 mm
2025
