Sky comes down closer to the furrow and drops a pocket of droplets from which, autochthonous, come the sowers of whatever it is you taste now. He'll die within the year and you'll be bunching up your stomach in your palms for the hungry sorrow and silt of it. Visually, a grand duke. Aurally, a flying sheet with pillow and caffeine. A line of cells surrounding a soft center coding for life.
Henchmen are another expression of lust.
Silence is a strangling of the urge to play. A quiet hand is one that isn't twisting a towel, a birdneck, or a waterbearer. In several rotations the bunch of grapes fastened by a stream of sweat to a plastic globe will break off and hurtle in a hysterical trajectory toward an innocent. The train passed this time yesterday. I hear it now, a family of geese, a fence to keep them out, and a ruminating murder inside the house.