Praise is owed to the supreme pundit for his retarded sense of humor,
for his insolence and fright, for the petty wilderness inside his ribcage,
for the tree trunk and all the deliciousness therein. Praise is owed to the man

in the bear suit for the stubble on his jaw, for the clash of symptoms
on the day we first met, and for this shitty teleconference from star to star.
Praised be the monk inside the donkey, praised be the wear and tear

that gave way to such a slow depreciation, praised be the symmetry
around the folds of our skin, the sweet and easy betrayal
in the moments of our bulking, those huddled back and forths, the sway

between what you think you want and what you want to want. All praise to
the cock and balls that got us into this, I said, and to the one that will get us out.

Here are the leafcutter ants in their air conditioned nests growing a custom blend of fungus deep into the night.

Here is a swarm of finches sweeping into the continent with their real wings made of someone's cinnamon.

Here are the thin reptiles sneaking their way across the lawn for a free meal before the time comes for the nightly news.

Here are the hot and enthusiastic bull mammoths searching for the great gray vulva of the rare elephant sow.

And here, at last, is the the grimy ape, rooting through his stash for a chance at supper, the tiny relic of his age.