Floyd

Lost traces of old iron. Where have my scissors gone. It’s hot in here. Everything smells like cumin. Is it the market out there or my skin? All those baskets where the spices are sweating, the tea leaves and strands...

Slowly the midday hours pass on the soft skin of young elephants. There are strange and soapy shimmers over the warm and leathery furrows; drowsily land rose-green, indolic silk petals, along with remnants of earth and white roots,...