In the zebra stink town the cold language of capital eases from its dormancy, a rehydrating leather tongue. It could be mine, a private terrace with false mirror.
The diptera, confused and hungry, evert genitalia in a choreographed perversion. There is a remembered colonialism in the involuntary trajectories.
A false mirror in the light of dawn tips amber. Its value has admittedly been diminished by the repeated pummeling of decades of everted dipteran genitals.