The city itself is a desperado. I have ridden to its edge into red maize. Time spins faster in the fields. I brought an hourglass. Sand flashed in the joining tube with urgency of lust: to eat the spans of women and men. And the world is a broad sphere, we surmise; more than fables ramify beyond the maize. Other Cities, stars on maps that adorn the walls of libraries: Genoa, Carthage, Goa, Tenochtitlan. . . . |
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