Come to take water
And don’t get away.
Bringing in medals and flags to hang
From the east, saddled burglary.
This is life under the moon.
Commander makes home with sand creek

Weavers, false weavers!

Were we to dig, were we to bury?
The grave is full
To compensate for the magistrate
Its recyclable
Spending days asleep awake
Till we see the bull

I have watched the crowds come,
I’ve seen the bulls come
The momentum of the past is consumed with the furious hunger of aching lips.
I have watched the crowds come moving with a quick wrist, greeting
Forgotten gods, making surfaces at the morning of repose

Fort promises are a poor sack.