looking glass Ellie Fisher greatly admires the works of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. your lids shut and open with the precision of clocks. mechanical brain, mechanical heart. take a breath, ocean air. sharpened shoulder blades. tensed against the cold, you crawl into seams of unreality. there are dandelions in the crevices, the heavy scent of roses. the colours of the body spread on petals, textures folding ever inwards. thorns draw blood, bitter iron. pearls rope and glint, atheistic rosaries. you turn, breathless, squinting into sunlight. it is the colour of yellowed olive oil, a sacrament. the flat expanse of water, blue as a dead baby, falls like a knife across the eye. calm swallows on you, crystallising along your lips, your fingers. faces reflect, restless. unstilled and photographic. flickered skin, long exposure. with mathematical care, a riddle for a smile, you step into the long grass, that deoxygenated green.
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