The trick is to assume anything could happen.
The task is to make it seem as such.
Suspended by imagination, standing there, snarling,
beast-eyed and in a state.
Twirls circles with one ankle.
Watching the mountains pitch darkness using shadows from a sinking sun
There a’stood at the Dungeness Spit where it never rains.
Next to the only lighthouse for miles.
The keeper never answers the knocks at his locked door.
And his light comes on later and later,
as the days enlengthen the periodicity of thier effulgence,
Like winter was a thief come to return what was taken.
And the noise of the Sound vibrates at 432 Hz.
A4 conversions and changes in the ferryman’s rates.