Through the homes of France
and upon which I gazed.
A mammoth journey across tonic land.
Where black butterflies laze
and only wheels turn.
An insincere assistance to walking
Is fabricated and lonely.
It is this journey I have not known
In my previous life of homely
Mice and men.
Black butterflies and I.
In the torn, scarred, and living land.
It is unreal and sprawling,
And clutching the beginning cland
-estine
(the end)
The manicure kissing
The ragged quick.
