A DARK THING

There was a fox on the sofa in the library. He was holding his tail.

He was holding his tail really tight.

So tight. The tightness of fingers around balloon string.

Tight – as though all the bristles might just turn to bracken if he let go.

And they might.

In fact, the bristles might turn out not to be bristles at all,

Not even bracken,

But dandelions and fireflies just pretending.

He sits.

A dark thing.

She had been running along this beach for weeks,

This Horse. This Girl. This Tern.

Her hooves, no, feet, no, tallons

laid indentations in the sand in triplicate, in threes, in triangles.

They carved, and padded, and they scrabbled the sand.

Her tell-tale rabbit’s heart had migrated to her base and beat

in cloven, fleshy, scrags under Dorset grey.

Looking back across her wake, no particles remained in place.

She runs.

A dark thing.

Tomorrow needs a place to stay.

He’s been kicked out by his brother for being too full on at night.

He’d been in the box room,

wedged between

photos, receipts, ring marks on fingers and tables, rizzla,

bits of thread no one ever wanted, and a faint smell of milk.

But now he had to go, so he’s put his things in a jam jar,

Headed out to sea. Clutching his jar of woodlice.

He floats.

A dark thing.

The fingers undo the buttons holding the blueblueblack sky in place.

The buttons that keep the heave of night encased.

The buttons that keep Cygnus in place.

A dark thing.

The fingers unlace.

Descend.

A dark thing.