There came, again, in the south: a yowl. The feats, stoic—-remember: we were once the earners here. We were once the apparition. It is in gloom. It is only our shadows.
On the first of the month, they knocked on the open door. They were tall, straight, starers—-they glared. They had hats, wore faced grins, wearers of the ups. They remembered the year before the deep muds. It is mud, now: it is mud. The hats are only for the party. We rejoice for the party. We trade hats when it is party. They have those hats. They have party hats.
Mosis licks sugar cane. He is poor. He has smooth fingers. He licks his fingers when he reads the newspaper. He reads the newspapers and sees faces—-faces like the faces he sees when he begins to stutter (No, when he stumbles, the man has learned to choose):
The faces are faces that he sees on his street, in his house. He chews and spits. The horsemen are not as tall when they are on the ground. The horsemen are not as tall when they stand on the ground. Mosis has not seen the horses.
‘Horses are not real.’ He says. He is cautioned by a crossing guard. ‘Do not wear red,’ the crossing guard begins, slumps.
Do not wear red.