He writes it backwards in other people's books, savouring paperclip connections plain as railing sillhouettes. Once a week while she finger balls avocados he holds her shoes like boats and checks for scalpel blades,
The back of my brain is bored Now that I know writing on camp mats is allowed I collect the little black bugs that nub my collarbone and hold them snug. My face under the coloured canvas is enchanted.
I have a scalpel, I can cut some stuff out. At festivals I will hold the baby and your breasts like avocados. I will rub cocoa butter in to stretch marks, knot you muslin sarongs while you meditate