And inside the sad house the worm word rumbles and rumbles, the murmurings of clear tears fill the cups at the table and the tears are drank and the portrait of an owl hangs in the corner, hangs their, her fingers pulling her hair, only seven, only sever and off to school that morning and not a biscuit, not a biscuit in her luncheon, not a crumb in her pocket, not a screed in her father’s tweed – the business went under and they may have to live in trees and breed among the worms and reproduce or maybe not reproduce at all – what a thought! Would it be so bad? Would it be so bad to miss it all? The fireworks. the dreams, the remembering or was it not to remember? Yes! That was it! To expunge! To exit it. To exit it deftly. To exit the bronze nightmare deftly and out into the open meadow with her, a thousand fire-winged faeries all dancing with her all dancing against that sacred hedgerow and the shafts of naked blue light peeping through – yes! Peeping through there, her eyes all soft and only blinking save she miss or save she blind the turrets of ancient jade in the mooring. But then, as if a slow tide of light, slowing unspooling its tendrils across the sky and she nearly by the ocean – she, nearly away from that wretched kitchen and that wretched cold toast and her homework – she was nearly at the sea now – could hear its faint waves breaking against the sand like cookie clay and the light grew and the night’s magic waning and so the trees hushed for it all wakes with the night and she could feel her heart wither inside her when at once before it had leapt like a magnet toward that booming ocean!
And at once, she was alone again in that blue room, her fingers in her hair, pulling it, always thinking of those infinite fire-winged fairies and the sacred visions they cast against the blue boughs. She fell asleep, yearning again for the next moondream.