It’s just the little lighthouse keeper who
notices and tries to raise some kind kind
of alarm but with arms weak from bad and
bad sleep, cheap food, gives up & decides to
stroll those sentimental streets where gangs of
rival lawyers perform intricate
dances to win the most flavorsome of
clients though all the clouds here smell of sweat,
ketchup, and fermented fish but these
days while dining we encounter
foul stained fingers in our pies as
markets grow cold and distant in the dawn
I didn’t understand his last email
but did you see those girls who just walked by
other animals 