Читать книгу Cutting Room - Sarah Pinder - Страница 8

the fine skin of a fever, bleaching. there’s some paper, sit with it, a salt

pig, a fuse, fresh slang, hitches in the running. tell amber in an evening;

the plant, the factory we call to, trembles, a near-sweet burnt smell –

name it, four or five ways at least.

maybe the only way to think is what’s cut is closer

to being still,

a pearly stream of fuel across the asphalt,

a peal – your hand a weapon,

just touching a plant or a child

in this place, just following orders, listening

well – that’s where trouble waits.