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Animals of the future meet
in the fabulous past. Nothing
that makes them dance has
ever been played. Stories of roadkill
and melted ice cubes inundate
wine glasses and teapots. Humanity
loves to hide in hooves, tails
and tree branches. Every day
winged creatures reinvent the wheel
on the fly. After the last war in Antarctica
the Sun keeps clear of the horizon,
toying with commas from
forgotten erotic novels.


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