An anonymity of the innocuous, saving bells the trouble of ringing

                                              the perimeter with palm trees. Scrap iron moustaches disguising

                                              glottal stops, with stutters taking tympani to quiet time. Body’s

                                              better bluster, worn in echoes of voices suspended from active duty

                                              for violating a whisper in the dark. An octopus in the jungle. An

                                              elephant in the deep blue sea. Little Mr. Invisible, sized for

                                              handcuffs in the emporium of guilty pleasures. The rudimentary

                                              collusion of events in the making taking turns. The diabolical

                                              applying for certificates of normalcy, in the amber light of

                                              postcards to the cousin who never could. The ventriloquist who

                                              never would say why.