Carry the davenport outside, stuffed with pizza menus. Build a cage of bedframes, clothes horses, hangers furry with Christmas jumpers. Prepare the soil with forest fresh Glade, beard oil and scrunchies ribbed with blonde. Hold the match, strike it in the direction where you heard your last lie. Leap back, some things catch fast, see smoke write about grey in your diaries, calendars fill with misty mornings. Toast chestnuts over flames licking the face of whoever told you it’s OK to call a slanted box a davenport, junk-mail entrepreneurial, a grocery list a poem, a lousy fuck potential. Sprinkle seeds.
Angela Readman is older than bread. She lives in Northumberland, UK.
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