I don't buy into the fireworks.

The ground whistles, a frog

squeaks.  The mask of wheat

closes over my bright

eager intestines.

A classroom bucks its chains

an isolated window

passing over torrid earth

an outskirt's red eyes

closing round a tar draped cathedral.

Book open on a wheel's mute horn

velvet belts and pulley's mold ropes

are stretched and singing.