In capital black biro letters on my left foot it says RIGHT. And on the right, LEFT. Put your best foot forward. As if we’re not confused enough.
Everything is suspended again, least of all, lastly, my shirt on the line and a checkered tea towel caught in the branches of the birch tree, stolen, dug up in the dead of one night with a trowel and ten split fingernails.
Counting down the weeks and days backwards. Exploring the roof of your mouth with no torch, not sure which way the right way up, meeting teeth and tongue barriers in the bottomless topless dark.
And a bloody trace of determined weak nails between the serrations of rib cage, from when we were angry or I was restless, flattened under a close suffocating ceiling. Or maybe just bored, or dreaming.
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