Look at the snail. Lean neck, thick. Ugly. This is one of my students, Sargent. He waited after class for a usual reason. His weak eyes blind to the futility of his academic career. He can copy but not create. Still, somebody had loved him. Had borne him in her womb; two souls in the same body like the Nestorian Jesus. And she had borne him in her heart. This boneless snail, protected by amor matris from being trampled underfoot by the world. Well, all in good time. Still, she had loved his weak watery blood. Is that what Cranley meant? Is what she feels the most real thing in this stinking dunghill of a world? What would we ever know about what she feels? I see a white dove standing on a broken calculator. Beautiful. Horrible it is enlarging. White feathers are turning to fur, changing color, darkening, bristling. Brown. A bear standing on its back legs regarding me, calculating his path. He gives me sight, and he multiplies my bread and my beer. Now he is falling forward and catching himself with his front legs and with an intent I fear to place he moves. His haunches, his breath, he is closer now. He runs. He leaps over a protective female form my mother lying prostrate before the door. She is like the skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire and he is closer. I see his eyes even with mine, yellow now and the fur around them reddening. He strikes. He shrinks. He is shrinking. His largeness, his roundness melts into points, his ears and nose. I see him now small and slender. Merciless. I smell his thievery. The door and walls are gone and he scrapes the earth and listens. The stars wink. Complicit. At least they know why. And he scrapes the earth. I can hear him, I know what he is doing. And I know what he has done. Scrape. Listen.