Too hot for meat and gut, what of waterweed, custard of algae? There have been kneecaps of cattle, veins of men, my bite orgasmic in flutter, quickened through intestine. What of short root embedded in silt, suspension of long grasses? They sway like hairs of a drowned woman. I have heard of bats that turn from blood to fruit, of men, even, turned comrades by way of heat under the watchful eye of sun, which today, is an iris to choke upon.