The body is the Victory of dreams when shameless as water it rises from slumber its pock marks, its scars such signs still asleep its dark olive groves in love, cool to the hand. The body is the Defeat of dreams spread out long and empty (if you shout, you hear the echo) with its anemic tiny hairs unloved by time wounded, sobbing hating its own motion its original black color fades steadily when it wakes it clasps its bag hanging on to pain for hours in the dust. The body is the Victory of dreams when it puts one foot in front of the other and gains a certain ground. A place. With a heavy thump. Death. When the body gains a place in a town square after death like a wolf with a burning snout it howls, "I want it" "I can't stand it" "I threaten—I revolt" "My baby is hungry." The body gives birth to justice and its defense. The body creates the flower spits out the death-pit tumbles over, takes flight spins motionless around the cesspool (the world's motion) in dreams the body triumphs of finds itself naked in the streets in pain; it loses its teeth shivers from love breaks its earth open like a watermelon and is done.