A spiderweb teasing a boiled egg disappears
In front of an animal too big to gulp it down,
And the mirrors above become the introductions
To the long narratives of sliced lemons.
Just what is a pet, they ask.
It is a bottle of prehistoric placebo
Prescribed to a hanged Queen of Cups.
A history betrayed by crushed grasshoppers
Thoroughly repeats itself in tree bark,
In an afternoon fib embraced by a squirrel.