The words form, solid and buoyant. A rusty chrome.
I cradle the words and lay them down into a thick woven fabric.
They deserve to be tied up with in a bow like a present.
They hop up and climb into a sewer tube.
They run round thinking about the sun.
They try to remember what buttons are made of. Plastic or wood?
Thousands of peasants die and fall into the sewers.
The words feast on the corpses and grow strength.
They rocket into the atmosphere and shatter the stratosphere.
Glass falls on tongues like snow and lacerate the digestive tracts.