The opposite of wine is vintage telephone steam
Where a chain-smoking catfish conceals burning scales and rose petals.
Where desultory souls of heavenly rust invade crepuscular animals
In the moments of utmost joy.



In the wake of a horror story between the eyes and heels
Of Artemis and Apollo rabbits were savoring the
Souls of the Presocratics. Animals hate squares and circles, you know.
They avoid straight lines either.
When they dance, the Pied Piper dies with all his doubts.
Crows dress like dead fish when they are happy.



Whatever hides better
noise in the sound or
sounds in the noise of the waves
many a cactus is
proliferating on the pacific
poison the egrets
have been collecting for

Construction sites are
for infants to play to utter
loose words of joy of which
many an egret dies

Virginal feet bug the shingles of the roofs
the waterfalls in the shadows of
congealing idols whose sacred language
doesn’t have any word for soul