. .

Bathing canines saw through thermal waters, eagersyllabled. Each is a kennel, dogs within dog —they lie, and this is the lay of their region (the litter’s sharp argot). The air here is humid, there are vapours of water and mineral, animal and spirit. To breathe they cut through with a reckless volley, each shaft of syntax chewing indiscriminately through its new den.

When you sit nearby you feel your fur harden in anticipation, though it cracks open to reveal the lustre beneath. It is reflective and golden, marble-clouded, smells of beehives and bees’ work but makes no sound;

to eat your own honey in the company of others;

to be elsewhere, twice-removed;

far away from you

who sits far away from home.