Think of a hand-slip,
a spun summit
bothered by mist,

the whirr and thrum
of dark metals,
a stranded face

minding a gap
which widens, widens,
leaves one candle

to burn in silence,
late summer wings
to char on glass,

unspoken words
to spell their spells
forwards, backwards —

fine fruit to hang
in armouries of thorn
for the devil to spit on.