rising like dough.
Hush. Somewhere out of sight,
but close, close, food talks
to the captain, describing itself:
the soil on its beak,
its paranoid eye.
He believes the inedible claws
as once he believed in God,
as children now believe
in the grey boy. Is it
a wren like a pinch of snuff?
Another swig: eloquent saliva,
the gift of tongues.
He reads the livid prolapse
on a silver birch. Gone.
The magnifying glass
concentrates on a single word
until it bursts into flames
and talks to us. Now.
Speaking of heat. Asking for twigs.
We are not afraid of the sunset.
We are used to the sunset
burning its medicines.
When it is over, we sleep,
waiting for food to break its silence.
The mind is a museum
to be looted at night:
'A piece of toilet soap,
still wet,
Imperial Leather,
the pale underbelly
reminiscent of plaice.'
'A cheese in protective bandages.'
These things are old,
