~

Noon. Ripe. I ready myself for the arrow. I leech the animal of its

nook. Running its tongue I call it pity. But my lawn is no garden to

songbirds. Brushing, plunging, barking this noon-virtue, this

verily-green, my spores ache in their vibrations. My Ears shift,

purple and Thick. My Circular purges its own curve. My belly, My smell,

My thigh still holds the entire body. My teeth soak in a violence of

sand.