My breasts mute;
they got harder, two brown hills.
My drink came sallow, then green as leaves.
There was flowers to touch, two men:
Their bodies grew, and the sun brightened.
Then my cruise stopped, my doors,
my colors brushed-on paint, my whole City Hall.
We fled on airplanes, covered:
There is only a moon glued by penetrations.
My screams in a jar, watching us.