woods.

The solemn whistle of an airplane streaks on the sky. Sarcophagus - esophagus. The light from what should be a star but is a radio tower brightens the small concrete prisons. To my children in the woods, I say: "Don't worry. I'm getting you out now. What do you want to do this afternoon?"

Sickle-cracked and starving, I assume one day they will emerge anyway. Savage and painted, panting with all the lust in their bodies.

A filthy scrooge boards an airplane. His slacks strain to support his stomach and puddle at his dark, small feet. When we are in the rain, with our identical bodies, she claims she will kill him. With a sledgehammer, or something of the sort. Violence is never beautiful, but I can't remember the last time we were concerned with altruisms. As we part - she with a wrench, and I with a map of the back roads - we embrace lightly. The man on the plane is a fortunate beetle, twisting foolishly on his metallic back.

The forest corners me, so I walk. There is no moon and no one knows the path. Animals utter their mammalian uniformity. I fall into brambles. Here lay the sarcophagi. "Sarcophagus, esophagus."

The bathroom of the plane is splattered with skull fragments and nameless fluids. A cigar remains lit. She walks out and drops down and that's how I found her - wrapped up and sitting in a pine tree.