Still Life with Nervous Animals

Too much was stolen that day to change his mind. What grew on the goats stayed on the goats as he fell into himself. The revolution was flattered, talked into a microphone that resembled a human body. Misery assembled with a peculiar silence, diseased and searching through his childhood. But it was the years afterwards that he meant to explain, how a certain dream sang to him, then flew away. He wanted the shivering sheep to keep to themselves, not to wander toward

wobbling drapes the color of his incredulous arms. Streets beyond his window offered refractable light. What could beauty or politics do with him except identify its hands and legs? He was crawling, dragging what he could from the explosion that confused everything, interrupted the flies. He was burning with something he called perfection. He would create what he could in that country filled with mistakes and contradictory instructions. He would paint notable animals from somewhere else. The kangaroos were waiting.