Time and again stop, wait, don’t say anything,
just look. Human hands grow in the fields
here and there, grow and move their fingers,
as if scratching the air.
Try to misunderstand them. Sprinkle them with wine,
red and white, offer them fuming cigars, play piano
in case you can find one over there,
shout at the clouds. Then leave them
to the cruelties of the day. Let birds and angels
shit on them, let coyotes and foxes piss around.
This world is a beautiful place, after all.


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