Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the coms and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

only you can near the howlers leaping in the streams in the slowed ear-salt and silage stack, band-aid genocide. only yucatán sea, in the bland dead bedabble, the tomes and petty soaps over the cherished, the lugs and bearskins, the grasses of tee-hee, vow shout snot onto war, and the yelp of indicative bird-swapping pick sores of the dead. from where you are, you candy their drear.