I walked down the street slowly,
listening to my shoes;
I had a flowerpot in my hands,
and a plant in the pot, of course,
and, you know, I had no idea
about its name. Clara asked me
to put it on the pavement, but I couldn’t
find even a drop of pavement around anywhere.

And there was an anthropologist nearby
on the lawn. He, to be sure, was slightly
unshaven, and he asked me what I wanted.
Jesus Christ, nothing, I said. I mean,
I thought, maybe he was not a geographer,
but a painter, or, say, Tlaloc.
No, he is not an electrician,
a cloud told me, he is just
a seller of commas.
They drink water, eat earth,
wear fire, sleep in dust.

I wasn’t inclined to ask further.
In fact, it was all rather abominable.
But it is interesting, I thought,
whether clouds eat ladybugs or not,
and if anyone can tell the difference between
a ladybug and a human being, which might