I have Imbolc as my excuse: time of the year I traditionally try to emphasize my creativity. I have Job 2 travel to awaken the sleeper, as Paul’s father would say.

In the end, it is Robert Fisk that ignites the spark: (page 174) “At least 40 of them were told to prepare themselves for execution by firing squad by writing their names on their right hands and left legs with felt-tip markers; the guards wanted to identify them afterwards and this was difficult when ‘finishing shots’ to the head would make their faces unrecognizable.”

It isn’t done, it isn’t nearly urgent enough and I can’t (yet) get the meter at the ending to work out. But the beginning haunts me.

I'm out of skin.
The black felt marker
from the torturer
is wet with words
unwritten 
...