the white of our bones. our heads out the car window comets breaching our teeth bent with the bite of hexagons, tetrahedrons cacography of smoke whistling through our eyes tea leaves, bones, the skeleton of centuries laid bare ochre and yellow a fox's bones toxic plasma singing hymns in ancient texts you say, my god does not allow it. what about you? why isn't you enough? the face you are reaching for laughs at your prehistoric ideas they smell of latrines the weak excrement of man inventing little jails for us the marketable masses us lovely bipods intoxicated by false certainty so his ass can sit softer . . . Don't preach, you say, and take a plum from the bowl. And for what? the froth continues the man in the tweed coat feeds pigeons she collects rain in oak barrels the earth bends on its spindle and you drive on the beach the sun blinding you as the old ladies jog by with no lipstick ***