Everyone is in the clearing. Godfather crouches, he’s tender, he tortures. The roost is mute. Iron shod I come. In the conical hayracks, in the intelligent bull. Rustling massages the sky. The cellar squats beneath itself. Seed undulates from the sphere. Lamb’s lightning utters the thought. Sperm is behind the drawers, behind solace, love is a red witness. We rented rivers and channels and tunnels. We travel a little stall in the wheat. I wet and splashed on you on the raft as you daydreamed, sheltered on the Ganges’ smooth surface. Did I come from lime? Did I make you juice with murders? Glue myself to the little knitted willow-made baskets? When the basket gently banged, language slipped and sizzled. It leaped over fields. The water was yellow, brown, downtrodden. The language frayed. Does the bloom evolve? Mountains drop into butter. A new fist picks them up. It makes plants from rice. The snow jumps at and batters the fields.
