Not keen.
Not for me.

Not at the top.
Not for …

Orange, glossy, gilled, miniscule.

Unwillingly lurching over, lumping back, avoiding
shiny low bars – perfect for hurdling over – and
secured by man-handled devices.

A short, snappy jolt.

Catapulting high,
head crashing out of exploding glass,
eyes bailing out, cannon-balled over into
the hooped-open mouth of a Suffolk farmer –
low-down in his high-up tractor seat, and
prodding at his molars,
stabbing at seeds, wrenching them out from tight-dark spaces
in his lower jaw.

A throaty lump.
For you …


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