he is 11 foot tall and has six eyes.
I like how his arms are made
of wooden beams and his hands are
goalkeeper gloves and his teeth are
the knobbly bits on a guitar’s head.
He is always there, under my skin,
buried in the bones of my wrist joint
when winter decides it should hurt.
I like how when things are going well
he turns up as a grey mist
to remind me that death is always there
and it’s a choice whether I join him
or do what I can to remember buttercups exist.
© Carl Burkitt 2022