Climbing up ladders in a play about dreams,
vague bones in bright costume shuffle
to and from the earth, like wallowing stars.
An artist severs his tongue with question marks.
Fighting is an invasion of privacy.
Sand bodies raise from the march of waves,
turning into shadows from the keyhole of the sea.
As a hot iron dropped on the moss of a silver forest,
the hunters pass, dragging their tools like tails.
This is the hour to hear the beat of bats.
And pity the poor anachronistic moa,
whose preoccupation with life is visibly diminished,
a fugitive from evolution, tracing a thread to eden.