In this country water behaves like stone.
Waitresses wear headgear made of snow,
magpies collect my typos.
Broccoli and cauliflowers travel in the broken skies,
skies hated by each and every roof.
Eagles drop their eyes into the hairy palms of someone
who might be God, according to discarnate gurus.
According to other ghosts, all warehouses are stuffed with fallen leaves,
and vultures peck at question marks painted on the pavement.

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