Poetry

You were trampeling on a wasp, 
when sprouts 
were generating Escherichia. 
 
Dirt. Romping around. How many 
corpses were there? Why can’t you 
tell the exact figure? 
 
Under the carpet the shoes will 
help. The need to jump from 
the rostrum? Was it not a banal show? 
 
The giggling girls threw a 
cordon around the sheep. The 
trembling flesh. Somebody walked 
 
away with the chopped head. 
Weeping. No the severed head 
was laughing. 
 
It was an open book. 
How to make the beds on street, 
and then lie naked.