There they are drooping over the breakfast plates, angel-like, folding in their sad wing, animal sad, and only the night before there they were playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes with its immense sun, its mother trucks, its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night the cock knew its way home, as stiff as a hammer, battering in with all its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender, a small bird, as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God, blooming, blooming, blooming into the sweet blood of woman.
