Dirty gingko ripens for the bouya, throws her apples to mash into the throes of rotten autumn.
“Time for the meat raffle”—whisper a butcher, the breeze, the man on the Vespa.
The man in the bloody apron circles his saw like a siren.
Wind hungers for a lick of “the side,” the mix of raw slaughter vapors.
The man on the scooter grins, his wallet warm like an egg ready to hatch.
“Meat,” it murmurs—“Meat. Win me meat.”
