Once there was a raven

girl wiping weary towels

across the face of spent

plates, tuning here and there

to my announcements as I

hold these colours open, cold

bears huddled in the pages

and chickens preening their

selfishness with wheat; close

these bindings, my nieces, as

we beacon a story, not lions,

snarling claws and a blue

balloon, voices unfurling

a bang; do you hear as I

involve us in this plot?

I am able, I can read

this to the end.