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A mind slowly roasts over the open fire. Its smell invades the moonless midnight like a flickering repellent.

To the north the familiar concrete ascends--crafted by man's meticulous hand. The ditch water looks like blood at this hour and reflects the fire's lights without remorse.

So still, so constant, so surreal,
While the freeze settles,
And the graffiti gains life.

The culture of the streets line up at the fire, single file, and individually leap in so that the rotating mind gets cooked evenly.

Little did they know what wonderful ingredients escaped in the heat! How little they knew about cuisine tactics! What tastes were freed this freezing eve!

The mind is finished, the fire burns low. Salivating tongues are ready to caress; rumbling bellies are ready to work.

A vegetable lays buried beneath the clay.
It breathes for a minute,
It sputters out,
And is then forgotten.