As the steel rain falls in deafening sheets,

I can reflect on the panorama

of sand and lizards and children and streets

washed over by the goats’ glaze and drama:

High, with language washing around bleached teeth,

and angry kicks missing their shadows like

ultimate quickness from voices beneath

the fiery toenails of the callous peak:

Ital concern for this misnutrition

kicks spurs into this hollow horse’s pelt,

so sandy in color and in vision,

so endlessly dingy like knees unknelt:

Loose words hit the air like the mourning sun,

killing off true loves by the bloody ton.

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