That summer the sand rusted,
The twigs cracked more easily. A worker was sent for
To carry away broken pipes and in their place put

In the basin where the brain was
The twelve paleontologists
Assemble around the banquet table.

The smashed curb affirms
That there can be no substitute for poetry.

I have killed the sentinel.
He was my brother
And was duly grateful.

I mime my own story,
the body describes itself.