His squinting fish with almond thumbs. We stand on glass, eating rags. We live in the third-person, looking back. Our parrot speaks for us. Emptiness clears the hill.
Rain darkens the stream scanning for colors.
From the narrowest pass in the pen they squint, thinkers of the gorge. Off to the ascension, with corrugated cash. There are wooden bats and braille frogs, studded spheres and sickbeds. Strange motions in the stars. The wicked in baskets, their shadows boiled.