shoreline on this word, picking the locks of years and miles, and spin us backwards to Belfast, with the enduring magic of a wand of cotton candy. The sword is unmade. It is still just a kiss, a lockpicking, a beanbag waiting to be tossed. An unlucky brass ring, unwon and unworn. Trasfabfablenook. A summons, under any moon as white as wax, from the smooth sands of one ocean to the granite cliffs of another. With this word, I turn him blue: blue as my eyes, blue as the oceans of Maine, blue as the ripe berries of August, blue as the endless summer of Trasfabfablenook.
Marini | 7