The iodine taste of collaboration in their mouths.
Each day gnawing at blindfolds of pleasure.
Next a rustling of sycamores.
On his coward's belly he could feel rock, a fan
of poisoned rib and effluvial spines. How cold his hand.
He would come to her wearing his famous slouch hat,
his heart wrapped in canvas,
thinkingSteel and straw and foaming mud.