Where ants force nice fish to wait.
Where the lamprey looks like a fly with fake drugs.
Where the narwhal is a nagual from a fallen world, where reality grasps sheep by the ears and tastes their lice.
The tapeworm is woken by fear. It sleeps in a house with beds that are sturdy and wide, and whistles late into the night.
No records exist that document the sound of the starfish. It is understood that this is stimulated by magnetic knees that project into empty space and lock with the skin of their arms.
The Angelfish shows us complicated dance moves every day. Her teeth are as persuasive as barristers and poets at tea.
All an ass speaks of is news and big boots. It’s skin is loose and it is alone. We make it stand as summer waits to cure it.
Vampire bats say nice things but think numerous gloomy thoughts. Moonbeams make the night play their prey. I have found no sleep.
Salamanders have almost nothing like glass to kiss the folds of their tartan skins. They enter the coffins of stiff things “What sleep folded up”, and pull faces.
There are three rings in the ears of sheep. Why aren’t their eyes closed? Things take time. They are cheerful and skipping in their crumpled coats.
Monkeys tell us where we should be. With step by step authority they excuse us all the varied blas of Playtime; passing from calamity to fear before they pleasure regal thieves for Arabian relief.
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