Slithermost
ghost of the coalhole,
dank, the slick
from the brick above,
slime-trail wide
as your black
eyes’ swivel,
where are you going,
my little man?
Market trotting’s
too damn quick
as you gloop
over slurry,
gunk your way
where leeks rot?
Slow on the stone
where salt licks.
Froth.
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