spit when you’re supposed to not after you’re spoken to
keep your seeds in their Cossack house, mouths with mountain hands
high cheekbones and a flat nose, can’t breathe but can do, the bikram yoga pose of mountains in the blown up buddha statues from khatmandu
timbuktu and the yellow scrolls
everything we know spoken in parchment, in parcels, bill parcells, lighting quick offense, expense…. eve, know we’re all gonna learn today
not to heed strangers
spit their seeds from your mouth, let them sprout in your spit
through the air to your feet, opera muse…. sick, suck, yaks mountain sick.