Slate roof tells the sky's paint lightly
long paths up the hills are tarred and furred
footprints filling up with hail
blades on the eyes of a stone god
lakes of rice and almond milk
draining over the highway salt
mythical hands on the handgrip bronze
that feeds bullets flat noses
and sells needles to the chimney sweeper
backflips on a burning lawn
tubs rattling grain
fish bang in the interrupted corridors
sleep curls on chrome embankments
pouting tits under dissipating skies
ripped faces unwilling to cry to anyone
gathering under the eaves of a bombed-out temple
sex idols clamoring wheat in the temporary time