The heart on the breast of my mother Saint, sleeping on the wing of any number of blackbirds their feet sticking out the end of red pies. Danger is my jester, is the only thing keeping me here. He holds nothing to himself. In public he goes public. There is a man who takes blue silt to his brow and kisses pollen. No one notices. They call him their leader. Between breast in the morning and open arms at night Clouds of hair: Gin guard has toes splayed to receive me to receive me. Songs and clouds and pots banged. It's natural, it's considered natural here.