the king of crumbling time zones. twisted rope strands bought at neighborhood corner stores all across this great country. a wax image of a man, possibly an ex-husband positioned on a night stand turned makeshift altar. the intense heat of the summer day has melted the figure before the woman has had a chance to do so herself, singing the incantation she learned from the bee lady at the park. leo climaxes at midnight and there was no time to purchase a substitution. the ritual would be lost. she would have to wait until october, at this point. on the street far below, a chorus of green people chanted. lions prowled up and down mainstreet, bellowing in the gathering dark. obstacles which had been set, were now being removed. many identical children would be born tonight. kings and lizards, all of them. bespectacled little womb-men. consciously cut off from pleasure/pain receptors in their brain. elephant tails and trunks entwined. joyful singing coming from the sewers. alabaster eggs planted in the blood red clay and set, one out on the fire escape, and one on the windowsill. sprinkled with lemon juice twice daily for the next sixteen weeks. capped with condoms like wizard hats. moths would come here to build their nests and nurse us back to health. a flutter of furry luna wings. become our eyebrows. let these thoraxes make up our means of sight.