Think of a hand-slip,
a spun summit
bothered by mist,
the whirr and thrum
of dark metals,
a stranded face
minding a gap
which widens, widens,
leaves one candle
to burn in silence,
late summer wings
to char on glass,
unspoken words
to spell their spells
forwards, backwards —
fine fruit to hang
in armouries of thorn
for the devil to spit on.
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