The primary and most beautiful of Nature's qualities is motion, which agitates her at all times, but this motion is simply a perpetual consequence of crimes, she conserves it by means of crimes only.
                                                                         —Marquis de Sade

Roaches march a side of beef across the street. Rain as fine as a hooker’s moan, jackdaws, and grackles deciding the orders for departure as memoir for stain and war. Love in one hand death in the other, dying to shred emptiness into a black crown or a cloth as vulnerable and infinite as the impossible. Tatters and voters and strands of hair for a feast—a knife made of hair, one made of sand, one made of grass, one a vice of water. And then there is the red skin for a dancer as sin of fire, all those virtues to separate a bone from the invisible, but it’s all just prayer from a happy desire, a tongue across a flute carved from a feminine bone as if it were a star or diamond plumed and pulled out the sky for dark weather. One song to connect all life to a flicker in a shadow, great power on its knees as a lover, the tongue in and out of the hush like fleas in a fire. One has to follow smoke to where fire never follows. Wake up in a wing or on a fingertip, blood for an echo with no origin, a flutter for a lullaby drones for a homily and wanes for capture.