music was hitting her feathers 
and flakes were filled with blood 
and she was sold by the piece 
a penny a pound 
he was longing for her, grasping her foot, her ankle 
on which pupils wrote letters full of desires and other drained fluids

he was catching and pulling her savagely
and she collided with music, abraded 
her endless mirrors in which the infinite was folded
and her curved hands struck the air with an atheist shout 
and her strings snapped with a shiver

[...]

and the suitcase of Buckingham Club 
laid yanked, spread
with the clothing reached by the road 
and the cracked window allowed the view 
of the eddies of dust under 
the imponderable 
carved sun