A turd like a curious
cobra or pagan idol, inwardly
trembling, knows this man and woman
of old. It is watching and waiting to see
if they are going to worship it or
destroy it. It would like to assume an air of
insouciance. We should worship it,
she says. Worship a turd?
Preposterous! says he, waving a tiny
pick-axe hand, his red snake fixing
its one eye on her fingers, aching to be
stroked and choked but
she is too busy holding up the sky.