I am a slaughtered saint to see,
heaping rubbish on a fire.
The goats which circle about the site
grow old and fat but never tire.
Some click their tongues as humans do
in way fathers will do to their sons.
I’ll sack them down and wear their furs,
slapping the air until one of them runs.
Let’s travel together with a flute and a car,
exhausting the radius of several white miles.
I’ll break the gauges with untimely thoughts,
hoping you’ll abide through these pithy trials.
If not, adieu, our relations were never meant to be.
I’ll see you forward, while scouting from a tree.