one took mercury and sold it (discovered it abandoned in a shed. the witches tool-shed (left in some shed, forgotten, in wild scrub round back of the infant school (so sold it. strapped there in treelight. took it. sold it on to other kids (one took mercury to the thistle-shade. sold it. the stuff ran in tiny balls cupped in the hand was crazy stuff (have some of this its mad said. and anyone would hand over thistles would a few quid and all the word to sea. said it was the greatest stuff it is a square and is broken where once it was called the assembly where all who would pass through would pass through at one time only the intersections of their routes would be the spelling of the paths they took would throb the intersections are what have been called ghosts twice only to pass on one point of hope and number to break the square into fragments still held down at the corners by churches mosques and entryways to dark shoeless spaces where scents and erotics give way to hard cash whose slogans call across the chill noon air as western radio intervenes and the teeth are brown in the smiles of the chipped square smiles western radio through the ghosts of acrobatic charmed snakes and music defines it for some where others its the anatomy shines archaic models of the human face minus limbs and seeing eye have fallen where sheep's brain fry is smoke to smudge the light of sky lights up from the mountains where the square is a visible fortress or listening device hold back the dancing frontier loiters in the shadows just under the big mosque downwind from the hermstone shadow is extra danger the scents are fingerbolts & footsteps passing solid in the smoke of the burning scent the intersection the exchange of cash for items of relative value where brain & ocular nutrition inhabit the fact of the geography that even then you can buy pitcher postcard even get your fingers taken your photo with the snakecharmer around the square are alley cafes tea spoked with the poppy put you on your autonomic brain channel back to guess the colour of my heart I feel the question is impolite and possibly would offend the question only partially solved by the intervention of ghost and ancestors wipe will stop you seeing the

recall how quickly the tv aerials become archaic as birdflight is to one who lies on a hotel bed laughing and says lets make a text the shape of the voices make rhythm of the sun casting aeriels are chinks in the domestic substance of patterns of leaves on eyes that are loved are as archaic as birdflight intersects to guess the colour of the heart is breaking wind in every city ever known is birdflight grown rusty and familiar