The world has a second skin
Under us, a rythm
Close your eyes and listen
It sounds almost like a river,
but thick,
not sludge but,
viscid

And the things that live there,
They look like us,
but they wear masks,
all beautifully carved and painted
Red and white and yellow

they all smoke cigarettes,
they speak only lies,
violent,
clever,
bright,
and beautiful

They don't pretend
to be good
Or smile when they're sad

They know how to
hold a grudge properly

The insects there
grow to inappropriate sizes
and the cicadas never have to burrow
and the moon is always full