Plastic air ducts release the sibylline

tension that leads to crows’ feet on the eye,

blanketing the space like old nicotine

in the pre-ban eras of the bar-sky:

That is, the gray horizon is stunted,

boxed in by the wooden musculature

of ashen livestock whose eyes are blunted

by reality in miniature:

The tears fall like saline drops in reverse,

cleaning the squalid concrete veins of blood,

and a woman, purple dress, takes her purse

(which is of a clay/mud leather) and flood:

She pours the currency like a river

and drowns through whatever course they give her.