The owl of chirography knows mouse has no autotomy, writes rhymes of such godwottery, hides honey brimming pottery, tempts bear who philosophically sees everything as lottery.

A tocsin from that delphic bird - the shrill lexicon spills from a trap-jaw. Pity those maimed beasties who, severed and crushed by a steely mandible closing, when from out and above comes a wraithlike descent, perish as sinews come unstitched, and joints unhinged.

There are things more dangrous than smoking brown cigarettes. Some night-owl woke me - shattering the dome I dreamt in. He was swooping for the mouse I thought up. His white face bloomed in front of mine, blinking like some dumb desert ghost with those black eyes - those devil pearls collecting a votary. Birds tend to fly at glass and kill themselves. Luckily, the mouse was not eaten.