Is it not Jealosy

Al arbol que das mas frutos es al que le tiran mas pierdas. The tree that gives the most fruit is
thrown the most rocks. In a firing range I sat still as an obelisk. Readying myself. Paloma blanca
redacted. In a city that knew a hundred years’ war. Shame was fury. The indolent still reaped. An
ampersand faded on the pale skin of grief. I saw not much haverstroo, Dutch for oat straw. In the
dark divorce. Sleepless cupidity. Swain at the bottomless youth lagoon. A spire of blue smoke
like a shadow following its mother down the foyer of mirrors. Dutiful as though death transpired.
Waiting in the anteroom. Yet no one queried after the blue sapphire snake twirled up the body of
una flaka blankita. Gentling the carnal girl. It is a watchman observing himself alone in a bed.
Giving names to thoughts. Agua ardiente in a house bucking. Feral darkness. I saw the shrew
winnow. Chasing its tail to swallow itself completely. Pallid wet fingers. There is nothing. An
abandoned church. A boy sees the shadow and names it. El agujero hondo, deep hole. He refuses
to pluck the water from its casing. Alone and denigrated. Days become nights. Poverty wets the
young man. And the nuns take off their habit. To drink the blood of Christ after mass.