• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 04
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What it is that makes us tick
is, the red seed emerging from a pinprick
about to be sucked into the deeper reds
of a mouth unhurt.
It is brick upon brick upon brick
and wax about the wick
of the crimson candle stick.
Until we recognise something of that
inexpressible quality
what is it?
A shade we'd like to smack you in the face with
(apply, if you have what it takes)
we have turned our sloping white faces away.
Nothing will come of this, we say to each other.