Uroboros’ spine is broken in three places, the bone has grown back, but the vertebrae are more rigid now. Terrible claws sprout from leaves. Salts crumble from huge rocks. We throw sand in each other’s throats, and this continues, but cannot be seen from the milky crumb of moonglow. The lamb is black in the night. Hands grope in vain into the blackness, trickling apart. But no one can detach their eyes from the whiteness and gold, Despite a lethal wave lying in wait behind the screen. At the bottom of the lungs, in angst the lips open to kiss in secret the ocean’s surface. The land has a funny texture. I pluck the offered hand, and the apples in my throat get caught in the storm.