you are slippery, Gwynarian, right under my toes
a soft and blunted corkscrew, smoke sweet in my nose
moscato kept in bottles and moonshine cached in jars
and here there swings my little form like other shy new stars
I worry you’re a toymaker, twirling out my screws
twisting out my knots and then the laces from my shoes
fear is bitter tasting when you know the flavour meant
and slips of boys like you slip off, no telling where you went
I cannot hang, I cannot hold, but fear behind to fall
I don’t know how to feel ’bout those I cannot feel at all.