Your eyes are bees to be smoked out, Monsieur;
I apologize for my lack of correspondence.
I'm sure you while away the hours with lovely Jeanne.
She always loved a coincidence, but they only burned her once.
You, well, your skin is parchment that goes up over and over
with muscles of straw. Maybe you lunch upon cantaloupes
and consult the Oracles. You tell us what to type while we lie back
and close our eyes. Automatic. Oh, Monsieur, you do go on!
We are but automatons, I suppose, while you burn. Do you burn?
Does she burn? Do you dance with scalps going up,
whispering the great arsonist epics to her,
the chemical formulae,
footprints left behind in ash like waltzing instructions?