The dusty violet eye shadow matches the hat of the man at bus station 13.
He says to the urn "By the way, that never worked."
If the world be flesh, the transient sits full of signs weaving to the flashy tunes of tango.
Ditches brim, knock and grind oil from the elaborate affairs of houses.
The supplicants lift great book to anyone-please.
Bridge to bridge he says "Tu sai che l'loco" and brings the allocated souls to metal folding chairs
in milk chocolate.
The exposed ancient pit reads doorways to backyards where pilgrims rub maggots
in the spinning room-always leading to Demeter.
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