Threshing arms rise from the River Eye and snarl round a postie's bike.
By the time the army arrives, our hero has wrapped herself round the church steeple,
coral-coloured suction cups kissing and unkissing the holy stone
as well-wishers stand beneath with hoses, keeping her hydrated.
Her body gleams like tonsils. Each of her eight arms tapers to a rounded tip
and the blobs of pigment under her skin ripple as she merges first with the verdigris,
then with the sky. The soldiers open fire.
You have never seen such ink.
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