The slow turning of the sun its languor, its blurred blankness. I am out of alignment the pain beyond my reach. Laughter in a low, gray voice. I've no feet- stumbling upon stumps. My leftover tendons stretching somewhere beyond this sun One of so many. My mind’s worlds are uncountable when multiplied by yellow. All are beholden by each golden quadruple. Where are my eyes? Pain in each socket, too much blood or reddish heat, like rage. I have already eaten my fingers. O flowers! That open and birth babies! The magnolia smell of new flesh! Skin that crimps cruelly! That forces itself upon you! The harm of its will! I am thinking about nothing. My mind fused shut with the heat. A world the color of green and gray and nausea. I am a mass heaving pink And sinking.