Then, the sparks on my lips a fist of lush steam to keep the train to the time to keep me going. Picking potatoes These greedy tubers and I are from the same soil. I hug their fat yellow hearts and our joined brown blood shudders. But when blight bites, or a frost in the night I feel it gnaw my ribs. This crop gone the way of the last.
Words wobble into the dazzle of the Strand.
His back straight as a tree. One red reaching hand trembles only a little. I saw it in a window and wanted it. Stubby pink tongues of paint licked its sea-salt spray from my cheek. So I saved.