Quick ostrich. Quick ostrich. Quick sand. Quick sand.

Quick lime. Quick grass. The white juice from celeste Aida,

and forgot-to-take-it dries up. The one

 

trampled by sheep (down below), Grischa and Beatrice

(up above) converse. They'd recognize each other in

a cover, a box, a jacket, a picture, in moss and trampled

 

dirt. At this angle of the sky

no pictures are allowed. Corpses are wrapped up like

sheaves. Dismiss the footprint. Wipe your eyes.

 

Stop pilfering. Grapshot gets tangled up.

I go paying visits with my lives.

Here I just romped and touched the rug

 

with a yellow shoulder. I don't know what a word is.

To cry out moth! when on your white towel you see

a scorpion? El Alamein! Where is the difference?

 

Rommel was kissing heaven's dainty hands, and yet

from his airplane above the Sahara, my uncle

Rafko Perhauc still blew him to bits.