He compared a poem to a human body. Each line breathed a single breath. Each syllable pumped a heartbeat. Each word sparked the brain creating thought... Every phrase became a confluence of sparks. Every sentence ordered the confluences. The page in which the body of the poem rested presented a field empty and open to anything. The body flowed on the field, not bound and stiff like a building, but malleable and moving. And as each breath has its own length, with inhalation being various distances. Hisarms were outstretched and wavering, with the palms open ina futile effort to defend himself. He deserved a treat, sortof a final wish before his death, so I left the grain-thiefand walked up to the Mayor. By standing right in front ofhim, I protected him from the pirates nasty threats andbullets, and I also found that his hands were right at thelevel of my breasts. I leaned forwards, and his palms cuppedmy soft flesh perfectly, his fingers clenching rhythmically,kneading insistently. I pull. More

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