J. A. Gaye
At the butcher the butcher cuts with steel.
I purchase in flanks and relish
Down the main the jays rank like rooks
I mercury onward, humming
In your juices—Eight Days A Week.
Birds. Whole intersections. A little wave
While in the kitchen I make my steaks.
Notes circumjacent: "Sabbatha George," "Polarian," "Scarborough Fair," "Iovian," "418," & "Whatso Fuck Then" [sic]. Sont: Dear Sabbatha, Lily Liid, The Graduate, School of Seven Bells, [UNKNOWN], [UNKNOWN]. NB: George Harrison; & Ty: which is to say, "...we call it Lisbon. It is Spain."