Another Story

1 November 2012

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.

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