I see two men looking outward from where they are lost in each other, one gold and the other the color of earth. They are made up of wounds and torn skin, the swelling feeling of beasts within, and one holds the pieces togather while the other sews, sews, sews 'em up with silk thread, the finest silk thread. Sometimes they make a mistake or a granny knot and undo the little stitches and let all the gushing, gnashing rare red stuff between them pour out...

They run their fingers through the wet and red and pulpy, they touch each other's fingers and they touch each other's faces, and sometimes they smile.

<<agé chose>>

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