Turning the miniature crank underneath my desk, keeps things from falling – and fills the room with pleasant sounds that I alone can’t fear.

Becoming one with the tundra cloth, one with the water dwelling plantlife lifting. With the pitch pine on the windowsill. Ersemine was shaving at the sink. The soil conditioner – bits falling bequeathed to the drain. In unison to the sound of the sea cave. The core of the tunnel hadn’t been visited in some time. The rough cut in the lime. In the den with animal skins. Down below the surface, she waited for her sister to come back with the pitch syrup. Hot syrup fell to the cement when I smelt it – the calcite evaporate.

When the clocks crystal time misremembers – a shriveled flower unwinds between the forked arm of a circular channel . Lilium bulbs- a stolon in the lower hemisphere. A glass alteration to their environment can shatter salutations turning again for them… The spinning swivel of forceps, a swift spinning fulcrum of the limbs – and feet turn fast, with pipe in hand. Chromosome 12. Channel A. demotic delta.

Around the twisting handle of the pin She reaches for the plastic portable lamp. Around the misting fertile mixture. Near the skin. Near the hand. Near the slight bony body of the skeleton fish.

A hallway that has been walked not walked but once, for them then to have seen in their defense – a relentless seething bird-dog whose legs don’t touch the ground. Remembering, their tendons twist in the cavern. She has lived in a snailshell bed for years. In her sleep as a snail creature with the mind of an opaline sphere… with the memories of a crown made of brittle thistle, many days old, a sandcastle at your feet, a sandy thought in your head. While you hide beneath the sheets underneath her bed.