It takes a trunk full of chickens to top the tank, otherwise...

When the moon lifts the sea, the umbrellas fold...

Such things, wishes — such frail nudes...

From a point of stasis, from this rocking chair...

First the nose — the head, the arm, next the toe...

Now, we dig holes for our dead — used to burn them on racks...

Amphorae cannot stand on their own, they must be stacked...