loathing and fear.

tread and fingers are knitting the quiet madness of hands,
the tapestry of a lip.

always in crowds
(fear of entering, exiting, and the wall)
white into the wary, into a paint-distorted day.

they have nowhere to go but back, says the first voice:    
drunken sperm pours madness into time, and
I hear them now, says the other voice:
they were walking for seven days,
washing their heads,
and dipping them into dark.

on the eighth morning,  
they saw the plains.