Who Kisses Fish I. Murder, loathing and indifference live over us as a great tree. Kiss the babies in cool afternoon, sway with them into sleep while the great mass strains. On the dark other side, drawn by night, you press lips to a blackness and drink, laugh joyously at your end. The fin feeds on itself.
Earth devours and is devoured.
Only the desert can make faith into substance, a conflux of ignorance and thistledown. But not the desert only. The dry plains lick golden lips in cottonwood shade along Kills Himself Creek. A wind-tide ruffles a shirt, lifts the single feather to caress brown skin, noses under a horsehair blanket to stir the strands of a fray. The ant trail shifts to cross an ankle.