bark-black and burbling,
the sound of a rushing
over. There is a shape to it,
the writhing animal of his
consonants - the sloped,
starry-eyed eel of his vowel
tipping from the bucket
onto sand, scattering stones. Next
sentence, and he's done with it
a knife through meat, sawing.
He coughs then, &
bats scatter from caves, an
alarming thuddingness of
his drawl a spat fob
of jam
running down
the window glass, the
mongreling dog-growl
in the way he says,
“the end” of it.
Photograph by Carlotta Eden