Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

The men kept to themselves:

they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.

The women kept to themselves:

they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.

They all kept to themselves-

dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,

the sharp parasol that punctures

a recently flattened toad,

beneath silence with a thousand ears

and tiny mouths of water

in the canyons that resist

the violent attack on the moon.

The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking

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