Loudly, sound the name on the face of the dice which you have tossed….
Boast before they call your bluff.
Has the length of your stride resulted in advances to anywhere? Without the simple result of whirling on puffed clouds that fill every second with the exhaustion of white gloom—as caters of pallid & square soldiers bring knots to sit and lie undone?
A fault—like an unquestionable mark dribbles drenches of tongues caped between the twin colors that blurt and spurt across the walls.
Birds tethered to bridges sprouting like limes or raisins—one-by-one— bleached whites and black urchins streak high above.
Loitered on dried fields scraping the tongues of eastern suns.