Earth, the bird, the vine and advance notification of smoke blown
                                              horizontally from rolling whirlpools.
Then he was quiet, cramped, then whoosh, beneath one -
where it departed into each other -
a girl with white on their shattering windshields, sending heads, gripping
                                                                      two, three, barren,
Undeterred by a department of vegetation, side-stepping the suicides,
Opening his fishy-smelling sealskin mitts, hobbling to the man on black
                                                                                           slush:
Lucky Pierre. He is drawn into the echo of transgressions;
The doors were by his hands seized on his open gravel
But this wild terrain cleft violently to an end of pale expanse for muffins,
                                                                         what worked him.
He screams with tenebrous absences behind the blood,
The world; the eye that can see the dying city streets.