The boy in the book
fucked his fist out,
took to making letter lists
sleep slicked himself with digits
and cubed bits and centimetres and pixels
and the scrits of kerf that lolled off the cover lip.
He knee waded deep to the pylon spine
and grout gripped as the arms all Ceilidh made moving,
the fist that fucked him, a footnote.
The scapula smuck of edit
got him at the edge of that Blackpool Penelope,
always he’d seen a signpost to the common,
but actually turned out it was a death wedge
of more story coming.