Slivers, I swear by water, by
The surface of abstinent flesh, of
A shattered sun belong to
Dying insects. But be careful: wine
Left for indigenous spirits after a bout
Can cut your tongue.
Foxes circle like the names of someone
Who should never be named
In the mouth of a sleazy priest,
Circle around the spots of
Eternal sleep. The tails
Burn your exhalations on the sly. Cows don’t
Perform miracles in the fields anymore.