If I should drop my robes you would see that I am dressed in quills of diamond and the light from the cuts are small animals in a wood, rabbits and sparrows, iridescent witch-doctors and damp salamanders, blind and alert. Resilient and silent, my skin is humming with the sounds of darkness. If you look carefully through the vines you will see it breathe. I am a white snail trailing a diadem of minerals under the leaves. I return at dawn and follow the lines drawn by my belly in the night. The final decomposition of a man, fear swirling near the antennae. What kind of stranger to himself opens the cauldron of midnight and then denies it? What kind of spinner of webs, like the harvester weaves in the fields, spurns the hidden laws when the world is light? Fear that I know, make a knot of black steel and capture me in it. I should brush my hair and pinch my cheeks. I should enter the kitchen and watch the squash boil. I should follow the dust rolling under the table. In this way, oh self, the being of nothingness can answer me. The rich oil of night will cover my skin, a sheen of witness to myself, so I might take life like a lover and lower myself to heavens and ditches, as if my human bark alone were the songs of the crane and my orange beak and blue feathers the world I live in.