The fox was in the glass forest with nothing but its wits. Ancient trees passed by with grins. A small river without fish wound its way to soldiers kissing, hungry. More shapes. More shadows. Imperilled rulers found nasty ways to play chess while stoned. A rooftop lullaby. Stern Polish mothers. Broken slabs of slate seen through by X-ray crates spread out upon heaving flesh. A long, nervous finger. A shattered swastika, next to a 13, next to a 1%, next to a spine-broken novel curled by rain water. Ripped at the roots, toots, and no blind labourer will spin the wheel while I’m at sea. Feeling a little sick. Probably old yoghurt.