gold teeth sliced out of sleeping mouths for trophy
earrings, all paranoia's graffiti pleading. Doc please
yank this sardine can shaft, this mea culpa, out of
my memory. I don't perform haruspical inspection,
the nasty custom, but we're all Estrucans here,
apostates suffering hallucinatory visions, exiled
from the future, fleeing God's imagination. What
Heidegger said: saying a thing brings it into being
exists here in reverse where thinking makes things
disappear: Sundays, weather, a spring afternoon
on the veranda faith, a glimpse of infinity . . . Outside
everyone is human a few hours a week, loves caveats,
explanations, identifying aspects of reality; here, time
dominates, promulgates extraordinary instincts, loves
unforgivable mistakes. I too suffer night sweats, own
curtained eyes, a persona scrubbed clean of delusion.
