One Pound Fifty

sun tanned unevenly, foxed grimy fingers caress bruising pounded by day's narration churlish in onyx, was its hint over feathered combs, see, of flicked, creased pages buried, stained words were never read while cold rooms grow colder an author's sweat for nothing stemmed the reader's keen though skimmed at best and your dilated pupils captured out-of-breath palates so I travelled second hand yesterday, for just over a quid