• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 12
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shhhsh, sometimes

sometimes he is standing on top of your head turnip like in the cold crotchet of morning, up and at ’em in the frosty farce of dawn

sometimes the point of his finger finds the one open crack to pull apart and enter slowly, wholly, completely he stands on his rocking chair with arms in the air reaching for the top shelf

sometimes his wings curl and cross over your shoulders shrivelled and scooped, whittled down into some nautical figurehead by salt and sea scum to settle mirror still,

the water is rising and he is on the move

sometimes light moves through his bones, from out there it finds him, marrow warm, toffee-appled and sweet it comes to take his swallow – for he has already taken yours

it is only sometimes when his hands cover your mouth with their lines of yesterday

shhhsh, only sometimes