Bringing both burial and breath, beginning and end, the bells, born of nothing but silence and time stretched thin, begin their jubilee. Protractors and papers and pens are lidded in desks. The board chalk is vanished as chairs scratch varnished parquet. The children fall upon doors, open them. The windows crowd with their faces.
At the edge of the town, the boys ranged the sand, pretended ponies and swords, fingered fanny and cigarettes, badly rolled. Shallow bellied, the girls, lips sticky with giveaway gloss, traded secret. They favour blue alcohol.
The children crafted insults and pebbles into the cave’s dark entrance to lure the occupant within. They bestowed new names and old names upon him as he, barefooted, cloaked and bowed, came sally after sally, over the seaweed rock. He had fashioned a rough totem from the face of some livid fox and spoke rarely these days. He mumbled or else growled, so the children reckoned him Russian or a retard.
Bad magic brimmed. The rabbit is pushed first into the hat, then pulled out.