Tuesday, 6 October 2015


“I think, perhaps, we know the words for everything
and then lose them,” you say - attacking a gobstopper
on a cliff top, like some form of urban bird.

“Where do they go?” I ask, worried -
shouting against the wind.

“We swallow them,” you say, your hair sticking to the sweet.
“We swallow them down somewhere. Along with everything else.”

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