51 5 3
|
....under the glass ceiling....
|
2400
|
Snails roam the sofa, mount its curlicue-d arms and surface: golden snails, mustard-coloured, ink-black. Snails ring my wrists and earlobes, clattering like jewellery.
|
9285
|
Paring knife under my pillow, I dream of skinning so many things...Three mice, a human arm, big bad wolf.
|
304100
|
“Mortal,” it said, and its voice made the cobbler’s soul tremble. “Why do you disturb our peace? It is late, and you should be abed.”
|
118532
|
I turned a maiden to a witch / and back again
|
