See the poppy seeds
start wars in east
Asian countries
on little islands where
solders smoke numbness
through wooden pipes
The smoke funnels
like the roots of a tree, into the air
into the porous skin, into
the tropical rain clouds overhead.
They beat and fluff out nicely.
They see lucid images of
little girls in sari’s floating around a fountain
of red wine and of fingers playing on
guitars weaving through space
at a hundred miles an hour.
They are recorded by
scribes on papyrus
as they sit under the stars on a clear
night where the Junks
are out on the bay. Little lights, strung up on their masts.
See the wind, colliding with the sail.
They swallow wind.
They butcher
water.
They smoke numbness
through wooden pipes in east
Asian countries where
there are Neolithic pots decorated
with cowrie shells from some place in
They float around the mud huts.
They jump ditches that protect
their cassava and peanuts.
They see lucid images of
a tumor breaking through skin
Like the head of a cauliflower,
vomiting small amounts of blood on its horizon.
They eat through skin.
They beat and
fluff out
nicely.
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