Wild Horses Of Fire

Of use and what remains useless
At least we have this dance
In the throat in the proverbial meadow

Of this throat what throat in the meadow
Causes us harm the circles all around
From which we was bursting a kind of seed

A way of ceding earth and the ways we were
The contaminated care one celebrates
With veils of tears this sacred pollution

With which each subject is sick
Has somehow agreed to be sick
With exchange and shit-like commodities

Smothering our species being of firstness
Margins of error and margins of waste
Estovers of force sovereignty shoots-forth.