On your blank plate, a napkin crumpled, map of the desert with fire on it where a mob, implements lit, is after me because I am no different and I am to blame, or so the legend goes in my country, a legend in which I've eaten it entirely and without a sense of digestion, how the juices like a thick snow or a sandstorm, take the form of, take it of.
A country belongs to what it can contain, a country is made of sand and soft fences left loose so that another can succeed cleanly how a dune can pass through another only a little deformed.
A noise where we advance our elbows on the table, examining the meal. The weight of the dish quartered, escaping down each leg and your reflection in the tines slit like a fence. A country breakfast flowering at the rim, yellow, wheat, white, the shapes you are not yet: out over my belly expanse, where belonging begins.
A country belongs to what it can contain, a country is made of sand and soft fences left loose so that another can succeed cleanly how a dune can pass through another only a little deformed.
A noise where we advance our elbows on the table, examining the meal. The weight of the dish quartered, escaping down each leg and your reflection in the tines slit like a fence. A country breakfast flowering at the rim, yellow, wheat, white, the shapes you are not yet: out over my belly expanse, where belonging begins.
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