cold coffee in a morning dew, brewing near the farm and you can see the doves flying in from holiday, next neat row to the next,

pouring her water into the drain, somewhere it ends up where the man in the high tower suckles it for a green that he secretly knows grows from the trees in his garden, the tree with bark made of flesh, branches of veins, sap of blood, leaves of fibrous sinewy muscle mixed with hair and veins, and fascia that reminds of moss and lichens that crawl over its roots: there we go, into the garden, to smell the burning scent of flesh, the creeping scent of melted waste