Lifting my finger up, it wavered –
Microscopically, I’m sure, it reverberated –
Buzzed like a ruler, twanged on a desk edge
Or the acoustic thrum of an ill-fitting dash.

I dropped it down, seven times, in the first seven chapters
“There must be”, a voice said
Deep in my brain somewhere
“Some symmetry – three, five or seven – never even”

I would link these words, dropped upon
Randomly, from a small height
With an imperceptible thud of flesh
On recycled paper

Here goes, wait on:
“A piece of the Pennine north” (home, James)
“Liverpool F.C. Gods of Europe” (no, no)
“Three brown rolls, a slab of gouda” (‘g’ with a ‘hrrr’)

“And a tub of vaseline” (before being)
“Attacked by a swarm of horseflies” (eek)
“Morning Ghandi” (he said, jovially)
(before, accosted by) “Malevolent goats”