Oliver Ackland

Eight headed hills sway to the mad saddle laughing. Kiss from stray strings, hooked to the hum of the porch. Knees and ears, fresh breath feathers, four legged tears. Owls spitting fire, bathing spinach fence pies. Tell me when it's …

Shuffle and stop. Dust to the sun, shakes, lusts for the moon, grinning, takes off. Boy watches closely, mad eyes wide, and sharp and tongue Boots move at a rumble of white, holding hands with proud thumb prince under nowhere …