By John Boden
He stuffs stars into his mouth, by the fistful. They shiver and squirm all the way down.
The night gets darker with every star devoured. Blacker and blacker. He walks the darkness in sturdy wide strides. Swallowing stars and gnawing on the moon, his empty eyes are all that is left to shine.
He makes his way towards the horizon, over houses with people in their bellies, curled like punctuation marks and dreaming of a morning that they’ll never see.
Mountains rest there. He will sit there and wait, for the sun. It will be so warm in his belly.