Winged

up

Simon

mymagician

whizzed byon
drivers'
glasses
adozenmoun
tainsfrom
Ju dea
highin

atree

everyone

aware

reachedfor the
great towersof stone
built by
adozen
Aztecs
to
offerthem
asun
a
cold
wind
wet
and
beating
sunglares
hiding on MacchuPiccu
inthe un
found centuries
slowly turned

flat brown

tearinghearts

offpages

Icharrus passed thru trees
newwavefilms
of
flickeringbodies
asun

forcars

ontheirbacks

inthegrass

flatout
ona
backfloor
their
sun
soleil
cou

coupé

rollsin
my
window
becoming

it

foran

in stant.