the day will come
at a loss in the nude fog
and soon the sun will start
the starving light will feed in the thick trees
glistening

The fanged wind snaps in, lassing.

The mix and match and lips the pick and mix kisses

The green lips of the spun bottle spitting the foamdregs.

Throughout primary school and then high school she'd had to hide this terrible secret of her brilliance, which lurked behind her eyes like a ghastly deep-sea fish, horribly luminous. She was constantly afraid someone would see it, anxious it should never surface, lest the bends should explode it into light.