The silent walk to the prison stronghold was Terror.Samuel Wharton
My feet would make monsters as they ran away. & your tongue is a dancer slicked with oil. & happiness turns out to be just another way of thinking. The organ-grinders & candy-stripers will meet beneath the battlements. Their restraint is legendary; no one will hear them whispering. But in my ears a hollow ringing. & my smartest suit is crumpled like a blow-up doll in the corner of some room, somewhere. You continue your on- looking, your pirate pirouetting, picking out the gaps between my teeth. The snow will fall. You will resist. You are a leaf & I am on leave, escorting the ox-cart for pocket change. Eyelids quiver in the wind, pretending they are unable to block what is seen. In the end, you'll have to imagine the missing pieces on your own; I can't show them to you (they're missing!). The streetlights flicker once, then burn on. There is no radar in the world that will not see us blip, then die.
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