Up in the strips of teeth. I reassemble. The biblical luck I have discovered in the assemblage of certain flowers hurries me like as through a time warp from the boiling pot on to a discussion of glass manufacturing with the head man who is wearing spikes of moonbeam in his lips. This makes his speech elaborate like a sunset. I nod. He wishes to cover it all, the jungle and the mountain side in glass, levered with the bones of many thousands already dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment