He would wet his fingers to draw them along. The tip of his tongue lodged where quick and nail meet. She senses his scraping. His finger slides past the teeth. Whorls of print crease the texture of bumps. Salt rides slender until at ridge of the first articulation, tongue in retreat, finger in retreat, his teeth come down on the nail. She catches in his pause. There is squeeze and release of assurance. Down onto the nail presses the underside of tongue. Up against the lower incisors presses the finger. More fingers follow until like a mouthful of feathers after pillow burst all but thumb is sopping offer to another mouth.


~ third locus of twenty ~
in strand oscil
second or fourth