Parading

But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing—

thin limbs smocked in white. A riderless horse has appeared

green, day smacks its lips, they are back, the inventors, they are going to do it

where all gold starts

be leaving early. It was my duty to stay awake

And suddenly

And for you who move away, pensively,

placed on the edge of that day

to the labyrinth of yellow cheeses,

Praise the mist, the warrior name