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And drawn and quartered the city gives good head abruptly detached, brands in bloody letters Liberty, hung mouths, the muted kiss. The peak shafts to the core. Snow lards the sandstorm, covering tanks and Blackhawks with a gravy succulent and deeply strange. The big dog eats off on his own. Crumbs fall like bombs exploding at his feet. He doesn't care. The mountain rises at his whipping tail. Thunder blacks his teeth. He eats alone. 
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The Poem of Lady Xok In a windowless room at a temple's heart, come with her husband to unmask the future, the favorite wife of King Shield Jaguar, Mayan ruler of Yaxchilan, is shown bowing before us in heavy corn-silk, maize-wrapped splendor, on a scarred and welted, slightly cracked, sumptuary stone. Obedient to the gods (as if we might be gods, standing under the stone lintel of her future), her husband holding beside her and above a burning spear, his headdress splitting like a ripened husk on his flat, squeezed head, above a hard face and jagged eyes,  |
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