The streets of El Kantara are unrecognizable at dusk
The people of death have thirty-nine filthy fingers
Braided on their foreheads
Crowns of fathers
Over there a tomb looks like a moving walkway
In reverse
The dead travel sitting
To the east
The desert
The dust soft like an open stomach
The clarity of a golden voice on edge
The toothless night the savanna
The obsession of
The North Star
The gusty laughter of the child rattle
The ornamental explosion of the eye which bursts
Under the boot
The thick juice of corruption in colonial vermeil
The church
Death’s fingerprints are pale and lack rays
The midday wind rises in the cafés
My mother’s eyes count a rosary of testicles
Somewhere in the forest
Priapic hanged men sneeze
The scarab buries his ball beneath the livid earth
Winter is prince of olive