The Visitor What I want to say mildews under the stairs. What I do clicks over the threshold with celery stems, small umbrellas on sausage sticks. I open my mouth. A canned drink falls. At Home in an Anglo-Welsh anthology; the sheltered accomodation of approved literature – I didn’t have a head for yawns until I learned to pinch myself.
	Bookmark Don’t lose your place. Tears bookmark holidays. I have two left arms. It isn’t always strength a body needs; weak thoughts feel funny.
The Dark Fairground