Don’t read this. Two beers and always i’m drunk, thinking on stone-carved milk, pouring from a bowl, the chapel where he sat, crying. But he’s not in this story, except with the feather, crying blood from his forehead, staining the time before you left. There’s a cock in the desert which fits. An enemy would impale you on his sword, instead. Walk over concrete, thinking of milk, of bread, of raining when She first stood, smiling and nothing is the same. You’re sleeping on another’s bed. His smell gets you drunk, because you know what his sweat tastes like, skin no longer yours to taste and this is okay. Two beers and drunk, walking across stones which remember, past the tree where He sat laughing, and you are nothing of the same Don’t read this. The dead cling and laugh, smiling pepper paste and all. The bowl looking like blood, and you, talking don’t say this. Along the stream crows came to watch you leave, crows come to wonder what’s next, and you know you’ve not long and anyway you smile. A man fits you in the desert, sleeping and others oddly grateful. You’ve returned and you should fucking shut the fuck up. At the pine and fir you stood, saying I’ve seen this all. Hello. And this wends into that, thinking don’t write this.