Condoms stretched over ice cream cones, pointing at the summer sun as vanilla drips out like semen on the sidewalk. Millions melted into the pavement, each one harboring tiny seeds and secrets and religions all their own. Magnifying glasses concentrating the sun’s rays down into the deepest crevices a sidewalk can hold. An arms race of earthworms crossing the street in the rain, now caught, dried and shriveled. A man in a white suit the color of summer semen is sent by the city to come by and collect the husks. They say the city recycles them into dollar bills. Counterfeit currency to control the county. The streets turn to sand when you go beyond the city limits. The villagers have been leaking out into the desert for some time now. Soon straw men will line the sidewalks looking for work. A man on a hilltop holding up a manuscript for illumination. Pages pour out into the slightest breeze, wrinkled witnesses to the dry heat. Etymologies and explanations exhaled in a thin black smoke. Races around the courtyard. Militants lined up in the alleyways. Coconuts rolling like heads in the stockyard. A bridge mostly built but never finished. Stones that look like men smiling. Men that stole their names from the dying. Pitchforks set upright in the fields like weathervanes. Prop planes that stood too close to the sun appropriately tumbling down like flowers. Drooping withering inquisitively instinctively. Mellow sounds in the graveyard. The dead lowered down in prophylactic boxes so as not to impregnate their mother earth.