running hands. running hands with scissors clipping open clumps of hair from foreskins. hung from bare trees out in desolate fields like all cliches promised of murder with a stern and undeniable hate. unspeakable finger-paint. and there, and there, the tongues, dry into muddy water, choking. you dreamt this and made me sick with it. made me a part of it. like crushed wheat underfoot. like husks of bones sucked dry.