…old tracks on Mars
Paw prints in the atmosphere
and there’s already been a party to appal the laughter of all belly tears
fairly tight does the many wind attack the red
begging the rotisserie to be needed lass for speed in her wings
dividing the senses between black trumpets and salmon theory
autoladen since sun down alligator rivers snatching easy
glances tasting sulphur, furniture made of life, crowds snaring with silence.