slippery with broken fruit.
Berwick cockney sellers are calling
a gut literature of English,
a street map of Empire,
in all it's spoken forms,
Every sound the British throat can make,
at home and abroad.
Stravinski's fire feathers
are sent in all directions,
gifts from the Prince.
Suddenly, I fear that I could be murdered,
and my murderer might not know her own mind.
