It's like being buried in sand up to the neck,
sometimes, waking in a hot room with snow showers bulleting the outside baffles on the a.m. window after what could not be otherwise than a dream where you're choking
at the grip of a Brownshirt.
Who somebody let in in order to throw out
the bum and clean up the scum and erase the nugatory values, go back to the founded ones trying to be based on what we think ourselves in our blood we are.
Or is it an elegant Blackshirt, nicely shaved, as he, with humor, shuts the air.