We'll eat your tousled state of hair,
marmot. We'll eat it and destroy

it with a dredger. Papa e morto and she scuffs
on the stairs. Riverbeds are your

eyes. The sales woman. I don't know if
she's a parrot, her voice is a parrot's

voice. Some birds slurp. Are palms of this
wide locomotive raindrops falling on

the drum? I calmed down with
a red Purim, with my eyes and

ears sideways. Anaxagoras is a stain,
we cleanse it. Indians drew me

such a mouth, that I'd fidget if I had
to jump through it into paradise.